


Ghost in the Photograph

by Guardian_Kysra



Series: Truth on the Dance Floor [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: And Jane Austen for Darcy's siblings' names, And they are all artistically inclined, Because I'm obsessed and can't stop, Dance is a thing, F/M, Gen, ShieldShock - Freeform, So is music, Starcy - Freeform, Steve can't either, Yep Darcy's family makes an appearance, You can thank Poets of the Fall for this fic, super slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7634383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Kysra/pseuds/Guardian_Kysra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The building housed a used book shop at one time, or so he’s been told, and the corpses of printed bindings and pages are strewn every which direction and rustling in the exposed air.  The sound of paper crunching underfoot isn’t a surprise; but when he glances down, an image greets him that is – at first – not at all extraordinary yet captures his attention.</i>
</p><p>Steve finds a photo book and one of the main subjects captivates him.</p><p>Takes place after the events in The Avengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chasing the Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Not my first fic by a long shot (all of my stuff is on ff.net, soon to be uploaded here); but definitely my first fic in this fandom. I am a big comic book/superhero fan but am woefully behind on Marvel and movie watching. My summer project was watching all the MCU movies in chronological order and suddenly I'm a huge Shieldshock fan *LOL* Even my four year old ships them. 
> 
> That being said, I have two story ideas for our favorite nonagenarian and intern, this is just the first to be started. Enjoy!

It starts like this:

Winter is coming, the wind is chill, the turning leaves are an ironically colorful promise of snow’s blanketing monochrome, and they are all working their collective asses off to progress through the cleanup to a point that transport of people and resources can return to a modicum of normal. 

Steve is at the epicenter, tireless and determined, because he needs to be useful and the work leaves him exhausted and dreamless when he sleeps. He is lifting a partially fallen beam, shifting it as best he can so that it doesn’t pose a threat to coming crews, when he hears the crackle of paper beneath his boot. 

The building housed a used book shop at one time, or so he’s been told, and the corpses of printed bindings and pages are strewn every which direction and rustling in the exposed air. The sound of paper crunching underfoot isn’t a surprise; but when he glances down, an image greets him that is – at first – not at all extraordinary yet captures his attention. 

He lowers to pick it up, finding that it has been partially torn out of a nearly-intact album. What remains is a gray scale field of tall grass, a girl’s form facing away from the camera. She is only visible from the waist up, one shoulder and arm reaching behind, a riot of long, dark hair flying across petite shoulders. The shirt she wears is pale, possibly white, the tear edging out the letters spelling “D. LE” and something else beneath. 

Taking a moment and not really sure why, Steve closes the book and inspects the cover. Beneath the cement dust, it doesn’t seem to have been worn by anything but the invasion despite its one year old publish date of 2011. The title is emblazoned in gold foil Heart of My Temple: _Photographs by Maria Lucas_ , and as he thumbs through a few pages, it’s not difficult to notice the subjects are the same throughout. 

Shaking his head, he sets the book down near his gear and doesn’t think on it again until the work is done for the day and he’s gathering his things to leave. He knows the entire inventory of the shop has been deemed a loss, still can’t explain the picture’s draw and wants to study it a bit more. 

It’s not a thick volume, the material of the cover and paper aren’t of the greatest quality, but he has a sense of its value as an artist. So, the book is packed in his bag, on his back, traveling to Brooklyn to his apartment. When he has a moment to relax, to take in everything of the day and the days passed, the years he’s missed out on and let it all sink in, he digs out the book and finds the field and the girl. 

Near the binding, the picture’s title, “ _Chasing the Girl_ ” catches his eye and he breathes a sigh. It’s strange, the sense of melancholy in the composition juxtaposed by the girl’s palpable energy. She’s running through the field, running _away_ from the author of the piece, but the body language isn’t fearful or angry or frantic. 

The shoulders are low, relaxed; the hand he can see is soft and open . . . he can imagine the graceful fingertips slipping over each blade of grass as she runs, maybe laughing. 

Yet, there was something . . . 

No. The realization hits as he’s tracing over the girl’s hair. It isn’t _something there_ but _something missing_ that grips him. It’s in the vantage point of the photographer, watching this girl run . . . carefree in a field and being _left behind_. 

He closes his eyes on the image, pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Maybe that was it. He and the photographer have this in common, a soul-deep loneliness, this quiet grief. 

Heavy, nerveless hands come together, closing the book between. He’ll find the book shop owner tomorrow, return the book and be on his way. 

He gets less sleep than usual that night.


	2. Beyond Tears / Make Your Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It occurs to him to wonder, as he walks away and out of the park, if the young woman, ten years older now, is still in New York, if she is happy and safe. His thoughts skirt around the possibility of her being another face in the crowd, the very bad odds of meeting a shadow._
> 
>  
> 
> She’s just a picture in a book, he tells himself; but he already knows he’s getting impossibly attached.
> 
>  
> 
> Darcy gets a phone call, Jane is a little devious, and Steve receives a possibly unwanted-wanted-gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting up takes time. And now I am going off to where all good mommie's go when coffee has worn off: Beddie-bye ^_~

“I’m aware of the date, Bennett.”

It’s not the words but the tone that pulls Jane out of her work for the moment it takes to process the tense set of Darcy’s shoulders, slumped as they are over the desk, phone pinned precarious between jaw and shoulder. 

“And I told him I couldn’t make it.” Her intern-cum assistant-cum best friend starts jerking her right leg so hard the desk shakes. Jane straightens. 

“I understand that, sis; but I can’t really leave work. I’m sorry.” And now the pen is being fairly beaten against the reams of handwritten notes strewn across the surface. 

There is a long pause as Darcy listens, then a deep sigh and silence as the nervous ticks cease suddenly. “I know. I will. I love you too.” As soon as the call ends, Darcy huffs a dramatic, “Huuuhhh!!” before dropping her head to the desk, loose hair fanning out about her shoulders. 

“Everything okay?” Jane asks. She doesn’t usually worry about Darcy’s family situation. The younger woman – by all accounts – comes from a close one, and while it isn’t wholly unusual for her siblings to call, those conversations have historically been once a month. Darcy has fielded at least ten calls this week so far, and it’s only Wednesday! It’s enough of an anomaly to break even a dedicated astrophysicist like Jane out of a science coma. 

Darcy doesn’t lift her head. “Fine. It’s all fine. Everyone’s fine. They want me to go home next month. For That Yearly Thing.” 

“That Yearly Thing” is Darcy’s code for “my mom’s annual memorial.” 

“So why aren’t you going?” From what she’s heard, the Lewis Family Yearly Thing is a huge party and takes at least a month of preparation, and it’s not like she’s working on anything in particular at the moment. Her research has hit a dead end and Darcy is often left with nothing but transcribing duties to keep occupied most days lately. Honestly, it’s the best time to get out of here for a little R & R after the craziness of suddenly being shipped abroad, alien invasion (because that’s a thing that happens now) and Thor appearing then leaving without a word. 

Darcy’s head comes up to focus on her and deliver in full deadpan. “Because if I leave for a month, you won’t get moved in to Stark Tower like you planned, you won’t remember to eat or sleep and I’ll come back to find your skeletal remains reaching futilely for the case of pop tarts over there under the copier.” 

Jane tuts before moving back and leaning to get some readings. “I’m not that helpless.” 

“Says the woman who can’t remember to shower regularly or why eighteen Red Bulls do not constitute your daily recommended value of nutrients.” Ignoring that and repressing a laugh, Jane ‘mmhhhmms’ noncommittally before suggesting, “You should go.” 

Darcy huffs in much the same manner she did after ending the call with Bennett. “There’s too much to do. I have an appointment with Ms. Renfield about the lease here, we still need to see about getting out of our lease on the apartment, and then there’s the logistics of moving all of this shit you call equipment and letting Son-of-Coul know what’s up – because, _security_ \- and then –“ 

“I’ll handle it. I’ll even talk to Eric about joining us. Go see your family.” 

The look the other brunette shoots her is doubtful and just short of cautious. “This isn’t a few days we’re talking about, Jane. I’ll have to be gone for over a month.” 

“Then take a little more than a month.” 

“It’ll look really bad for me to miss the first month of _gainful_ employment.” 

Jane smiles beatifically, “I’ll handle that too. I’m sure Ms. Potts will understand.” 

At that, Darcy’s eyes narrow behind square framed glasses as her mouth drops open, “You sneaky _bitch_! You already cleared it with her!” 

Hands up, a grin on her mouth, Jane is not without pride. “Told you. Not that helpless.” She takes the steps to Darcy who is now banging her head against the desk. “And I made sure you’ll get paid for the time you’re out, too.” 

“Oh my God. I’d thank you but I have a feeling you want something for the trouble.” 

Jane is damn near giddy. “I want live video of the _show_.” 

Darcy’s head thumps against the desk. “Well, FUCK.” 

GitP

Things don’t go as planned for all Steve's legend and the misconceptions therein. He finds the shop owner but instead of accepting it back, the man begs Steve to take the book, to keep it, as a _gift_. He had met Maria, knew her for a lovely woman, thought Steve might appreciate her vision, _considering_. 

Polite to a fault, he accepts the book, stuffs it in his backpack feeling an irrational anger – just one more thing he can’t control, one more thing he has to accept against his wishes. He thinks of throwing it in the trash. Counts five bins before he gives up and makes his way to Central Park to sit and think and – okay. Yeah. He wants to look at it. It’s just after noon and the sun is just high enough to discourage the morning’s icy veil. He settles under a tree dressed almost tauntingly in red and gold, finds the book and runs his hands over the cover reverently as if asking, “ _Should I_?” 

Feeling ridiculous - _It’s just a photography book, damn it_ , he flips to a random page and finds himself staring at the profile of an exquisite dark-haired young woman. The photo is in black and white, a close up shot. The composition is mostly of the woman’s face; but he can discern by clues in the background she is in a bedroom – perhaps her own – the walls covered in posters with a cartoon elf man with a shield named Zelda and a paper version of Tony’s AC/DC shirt. 

He notices almost immediately that despite the lack of distance between photographer and subject, the shot doesn’t feel staged or expected. The focus is slightly blurred, the angle just a bit off. He can’t know if the girl is sitting or standing, but she is looking to the side, facing a light source, possibly a window. Her mouth is pursed in a strange arrangement of upper lip eclipsing the lower. 

He thinks, for just a moment, that she is simply contemplating something difficult. Her eyes are gazing out – pale iris catching the light in a way that makes it nearly glow through the page, lid lowered at half-mast. _Distant_. 

It’s when his study turns from the line of her nose to the curve of her cheek that he notices the barely discernible tear tracks, the faint smudges of shadow beneath her visible eye, the worried wrinkle of her brow. 

Rubbing at the answering ache in his chest, he wonders what her story is, wants to know what saddens her, feels an overwhelming urge to embrace her. He’s not sure what gives the impression, but the young woman in the photo looks more accustomed to smiles and laughter than sadness and silence. 

Steve glances at the top of the page, near the binding to find the title, “ _Beyond Tears_.” 

Wanting to see something more positive, he searches out another picture of the woman and finds a close shot of her, this one in vivid color, called “ _Make Your Mark_.” 

The girl is looking up, the angle of the camera coming from below to catch the now-familiar background of modern New York, Stark Tower visible in one corner. Her jawline is strong and proud and her smile is wide – beautiful and teasing at the same time – complimented by the palpable sparkle in her eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. 

He notes the vibrant pumpkin orange knit sweater striped in navy and matching knit cap pulled over her head, long brown hair falling over one shoulder in a messy plait. She looks achingly young and hopeful, a sharp departure from the previous image of her. And it strikes him that this is what he keeps fighting for – for that spark of people like this girl he doesn’t know but has charmed with just a hint of tears and a paper smile. 

His mouth warps into a smile in response as his fingers trail over her face, wondering if he could sketch her to exude the same emotion he feels from the photo, this presence in the now. 

There is a buzz and tingling sensation at his side, pulling him from the book of photos. He checks his phone – a text reminding him of a meeting at the tower in an hour. He sighs and stretches, places the book – carefully this time – into his bag, makes to leave. 

It occurs to him to wonder, as he walks away and out of the park, if the young woman, a year if not a few years older now, is still in New York, if she is happy and safe. He hopes so. His thoughts skirt around the possibility of her being another face in the crowd, the very bad odds of meeting a shadow. 

_She’s just a picture in a book_ , he tells himself; but he already knows he’s getting impossibly attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Darcy strikes a deal with her meddling siblings . . . and Tony, Natasha interrupts Steve's brooding time.


	3. Life on the Dancefloor / With Your Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Take the bike. Go on an extended road trip. See things you’ve already seen, places you wished you had, take in the way things have changed and stayed the same. Take some time for yourself.”_  
>  It’s an attractive suggestion. His interest must show on his face, because Nathasha sort of sways on her feet with a smirk before continuing. “And you should plan a stop in Lincoln, Nebraska.” 
> 
>  
> 
> “What’s in Nebraska?”
> 
>  
> 
> “A friend. She’s already agreed to put you up for a few nights if you head that way.”
> 
> Darcy makes a deal with her sibling . . . and Tony. Natasha interrupts Steve's brooding time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darcy makes a deal with her sibling . . . and Tony. Natasha interrupts Steve's brooding time.

Once the decision is made, Darcy goes to work. She rearranges her schedule, glues herself to her phone, and maps out the path of least resistance to. Get. Shit. Done.  


Because for all her “not helpless” bluster, Jane sucks at adulting when it comes to the mundane and necessary. It’s one of the many reasons Jane didn’t send Darcy packing when the internship expired but “promoted” her to assistant (still unpaid! Thank you very much). If one of the other reasons was SHIELD ~~commanding~~ strongly encouraging them to stick together, they weren’t saying anything.

Darcy is well-practiced at dealing with a multitude of things at a moment’s notice. Her priority to-do list is ever changing and adaptable, and she’s worked hard in the past to set up an efficient system so that – in the event of urgent business or outright emergency (but notably not certain-death by fucking scary fire spewing Destroyer from Asgard), neither Jane nor Eric have to worry overmuch about the so-called “little things”. This is how she managed to get herself, Jane, and the necessary equipment packed and ready thirty minutes after the call ordering their evacuation to TromsØ well before the standard SHIELD issue black van showed up; and she plans to accomplish everything on her current to-do list in less than two days. 

She chews on the ends of her hair (a horrible childhood habit that always comes back this time of year) as she plugs her phone into the console, the ring of an outgoing call sounding through the car cab space. It’s a rental and more than she can afford on her non-existent salary. She usually rides a second-hand bike around when she can get away with it; but there’s simply too much to do today and Jane has granted her the keys. 

The call picks up and a sleepy male voice immediately soothes the sparking irritability at being so rushed without the aid of coffee. “Changed your mind?” 

Darcy rolls her eyes ineffectually, “I can’t believe you went after Jane.” 

His chuckle reminds her of pulled pigtails and late night brownies. “Why do you think it was me? It could have been dad or Bennett. Even Bing.” 

“Dad would never be that uncouth, you traitorous bastard; Bing doesn’t acknowledge anything that isn’t on a tripod and Bennett has better things to do with her time than harass a perfect stranger.” 

“I’m insulted.” He really did sound just a hint defensive. “I met Jane last year.” 

“You met her for like five seconds, Collins.” 

“Still met her.” She can _feel_ his grin before he says, “Actually, you should invite her to –“ 

Darcy grits her teeth, “Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.” 

There’s a pause before he changes tact. “So when do I pick you up from the airport?” 

Aiming her eyes heavenward, Darcy thinks that even though she loves her siblings, they are collectively going to be the cause of her inevitable trip to the funny farm. “Dad’s picking me up. We’re going to stop over at Bennet’s, surprise the kids.” 

“See you at mom’s grave tomorrow then?” 

“That’s why I’m calling. I have some things to take care of before I leave. I won’t be there till Saturday.” 

His voice is low as he asks, “What kind of things?” After the insanity of New Mexico and the SHIELD detail still monitoring Jane and her associates, Darcy negotiated the 

massive amount of NDAs she had first signed and was granted permission to tell her family about meeting Thor and everything that came after . . . on the condition _they_ sign just as many NDAs. 

Which they did without complaint. _Much_. Because family sticks together, dammit. 

The otherworldly crazy wasn’t something they talked about openly or often, but every now and again if Darcy made enough excuses about visits or missed calls, they began to assume something weird and dangerous was going on. 

“Nothing like what you’re thinking. Leases, packing, transportation, new job paperwork, and you know, _moving_ across state lines kinda shit.” 

Collins hum echoes around her. She wonders how many times that voice has lulled her to sleep on difficult days and finds her smile reflected in the rearview mirror. “Whatever kid, save me a dance.” 

She blows out a breath. “I’ll save you two.” 

“Make it four and I’ll do you a solid and cook for you every night until you’re sick of it.” 

“I’ve only got two prepared but for your famous shepherd’s pie, I will come up with something.” 

“Then you’d better bring an empty stomach. Be careful, little bit. See you soon.” The affection in his voice is a live thing wrapping her up in a hug she didn’t know she needed. 

“You too C-dawg.” 

The call drops and she squares her shoulders, mentally filing through her playlists for two more songs to choreograph. Two more items to add to the to-do list. 

GitP

The next day, after a red eye flight and no sleep, Darcy finds herself beside an equally tired Jane, walking into Stark Tower and marking off another item from her list. 

It’s not a secret Darcy has always wanted to live in New York. It’s been her one big dream since she was a little girl and saw her first Broadway show at the local arena. When she had first visited, nearly four years ago, her irrepressible awe had her mother swearing up and down that Darcy should transfer to Skidmore College, _Dad and I can handle the expense, honey, we just want you to be happy_ ; but Darcy’s heart had been set on Culver and its excellent Computer Science program. 

Well, that and it was reasonably close to home – a mere day's drive, really - just in case. New York would still be there when she was done. 

Of course, that was before men could fly in iron suits, turn into mean, green smashing machines, Thor, the Chitauri, and a dead superhero came back to life. Because, seriously, as the cab had weaved through the maze of contraflow set up to avoid massively damaged (or outright _destroyed_ ) areas of the city, Darcy had to admit she had no talent for clairvoyance. 

But she’s here now at buttfuck o’clock in the night/morning, in this freakishly high tech building, going up to god-knows-what floor, sharing space with a world famous astrophysicist, a high powered CEO, a scarily human AI, occasionally a couple of super spies, and real live super heroes. This is big and momentous and actually really, brutally honest kinds of _life_ and _death_ levels of terrifying. It’s definitely not how she planned to make her debut in New York, neither the best nor worst scenario; but she feels a sense of belonging and rightness that is stronger than any of her fears or doubts when the offer was made. 

This is where she was _meant_ to be. Just like momma said. 

“If you will follow the lighted path, Dr. Foster, Miss Lewis, you will find your assigned lab space, Room 3131. I trust you will find everything to your satisfaction. Should you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask.” Jarvis is going to take some getting used to, but right now, when she’s nearly dead on her feet and looking forward to the flight home in six – no - _five_ hours, Darcy finds comfort in that constant presence . . . . Of course, she wonders if he has access to bedrooms and other private spaces because that would be just a little weird and intrusive; but she’s simply too tired to care much right now. 

She follows Jane dumbly, focused on putting one foot in front of the other when she hears a low whistle. Looking up, she sees (but doesn’t quite register) Tony Stark walking (more like lightly jogging) toward them with his rumpled oil-stained clothes and manscaping, Pepper- _fucking_ -Potts practically _floating_ on six inch heels a step or two behind. 

It should be illegal to be that beautiful and elegant at buttfuck o’clock. 

Tony and Jane are suddenly talking but the words are just white noise as Darcy’s brain chokes and sputters trying to make sense of what she needs to do next and what must be accomplished before her plane leaves. _Get Jane out of here within the hour, feed her, feed self, start unpacking apartment, double check bags for trip home, call Bennett when I leave . . . uuuugghhh gotta call a cab first –_

“Lewis, wanna tell me why you’re bailing before boarding?” Stark is just as she imagined he’d be and more – all hands and jerking movements that belie the disjointed mania of genius-tempered-anxiety. 

When she returns and actually has a first day of _paid_ work (it cannot be overstated) she’ll switch him to decaf, slowly and quietly. He never has to know. It isn’t like he needs the caffeine and extra stimulation. 

Distantly, she notes that she is not talking and that he is watching her with narrowed, suspicious eyes. She thrusts her hand at him and musters a weary smile. Just looking at him fairly vibrating with irrepressible kinetic energy is tiring her out more than she already is, and she’s gonna be working with this walking, talking Energizer bunny with a goatee. Pretty much Every. Fucking. Day. For the foreseeable future. The Norns must _hate_ her. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Stark. You must have read my file.” Because she’s pretty damn sure she didn’t miss Jane introducing her. 

He ignores her hand and levels a hard, assessing look. “Still waiting for an explanation, Busty McBoobs.” 

Darcy shakes her head, computes what he just called her and shoots him a pointed look. “Wasting no time on the boob jokes.” So it was like that, huh? She was entirely too tired to deal with this kind of bullshit. 

Yes, she had a freaking fantastic rack. So did more than half the population. She also had a brain which she knew how to use or she would not be in this building, mixing with these people. And – even though it was not on her list – she was not going to let Tony Stark, former playboy extraordinaire, pigeonhole her as some shrinking violet. 

She has three (much) older siblings. Darcy is no stranger to a gentle hazing or giving as good as she gets. 

Dropping her offered hand, she meets his gaze with a pointed one of her own. “I heard a rumor you had your testicles removed to be more aerodynamic. Care to explain that?” 

He guffaws and is suddenly smirking at her, tugging one ear, his eyes twinkling even as she bares her teeth at him. “Touchè.” 

Raising her chin proudly, she nods to him in acknowledgement. 

Thankfully he seems to forget asking about her coming absenteeism and turns to Jane, escorting her into the lab, gesturing that Darcy and Ms. Potts should follow. 

Darcy lasts for about five minutes before finding a chair and dropping into it as Jane and Stark fall into some rapid fire discussion about proton beam inhibitor doohickeys and electromagnetic whatsits. Honestly, she is about to keel over when the weight of a hand on her shoulder has her jumping to her feet with a choked scream. 

There is a moment, as she swings about wildly and sees Ms. Potts horrified face, Darcy knows she would have tased the older woman had it been available. 

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” For a bare microsecond, Darcy thinks she said it. It takes another microsecond to realize Ms. Potts did. 

“S’okay.” Dammit, was she _slurring_ now? “Just glad I didn’t have my taser.” Because apparently New York had something against them, and right now, Darcy is really happy with that. Really, really, really happy. She has never had a _serious_ career-type position before but – even in her exhaustion-induced slushiness – she’s pretty sure it would be considered bad form to tase the boss. 

And that’s when Stark and Jane decide to join the party again. 

“Read about the taser in your file. Confirmed it with Fabio. Did you know he calls you his “Lightning sister”? Will we get a repeat performance so I can post it on Instagram?” 

She just stared at him. Her fucking claim to fame: defending herself and being successful at it. Never mind that she hadn’t been in actual danger at the time, she had _believed_ Thor was dangerous. It was the _principle_. “Awesome. I’m telling him you called him Fabio, he’ll be thrilled. Yes, yes I did, and no.” 

“You still haven’t answered me about the extended vacation you’re asking for.” 

“It’s not a vacation.” It really and truly _isn’t_. She’s literally walking into a performing arts war zone of epic proportions where she will work twenty hour days, sweating, bleeding and fucking killing her already damaged ankles and knees while dealing with a stressed Bennett, demanding Bing, over-protective Collins, and smothering father. Not to mention the hordes of cousins, aunts and uncles. (And she will love every fucking second of it.) 

Pepper is nothing but gracious, “Jane explained everything and I’m happy to give you the time.” The glare she shoots at Stark could pierce lead. 

“Which – funnily enough – explains absolutely nothing. Doesn’t anyone else find this suspicious?” Stark is serious, and she gets it. She really does. This isn’t a run of the mill job. There were security clearances she had to get through that US Generals didn’t have to worry about. She was talking to a man who had manually directed a fucking nuclear missile into a hole in space created by the _Norse god of Mischief_ to allow a hostile alien race into their world, for fuck’s sake. And it wasn’t even that long ago. 

And now he has this near stranger entering his crucial, very fragile purview and suddenly, without warning taking off to who knew where for what purpose. It isn’t a secret. She doesn’t want it to be. But it’s personal, and so is his building and his work. She _gets_ it. 

“My mom’s memorial is in a month and a half. It takes most of that time at least to prepare. I’m going home to help out.” 

His expression is firmly incredulous. “What the hell kind of memorial takes a month and a half?” 

“It’s a family reunion thing. My siblings, cousins and I provide the entertainment.” 

Jane decides to jump in, shooting Darcy a wink, “Singing, dancing, music. They’re really good.” And the only reason Jane even knows about any of this is because she may have caught Darcy dancing around the lab a time or two. Even through a science!coma. 

Stark still looks unconvinced. “So what? You’re like a female Hanson?” 

“God, NO.” Darcy rubs at her eyes, feeling even more tired and – at least internally – acknowledging that no, she will not be getting that thirty minute nap she was hoping for. 

“Look, my mom owned a dance studio. My siblings and cousins and I, lessons were mandatory . . . we did competitions and all that shit. My sister, she’s a singer and vocal coach now. My oldest brother, he’s a tv producer; and my other brother is a composer and headlines his own rock band. We get together once a year to do this thing for my mom, to remember how much she loved life and music and dance . . . anything artsy and we just give that love back. It’s, like, this gigantic love fest.” 

In for a penny . . . “It’s also a fundraiser. We sell tickets around the area . . . for cancer research.” And because it needed to be said, “I wasn’t going to go; but I was outnumbered and outmaneuvered.” She shifts to face Ms. Potts and thanks her again for being so understanding about all of this – this time in person. 

Stark just stares at her with hands in prayer attitude against his lips. “Make you a deal.” 

Oh, fuck NO. Too many deals have been made and Darcy is not prepared to make a wager with this joker. “I don’t thin—“ 

“I’ll double your leave pay if you broadcast video of this performance to the Tower.” 

No. No. And no. Darcy is shaking her head. Hard. She might be giving herself whiplash. 

But Stark isn’t finished. “And I’ll triple my contribution to your 401K.” 

Darcy stills, considering. Maybe if she held out just a little more -- 

“And 10 million to your fund raiser.” 

Later, much later, she would blame sleep deprivation for temporary insanity. But for now, she grins and thrusts out her hand again. “It’s a deal.” 

Jane squeals and bounces on her heels (it’s also not a secret that Jane really, _really_ wants to attend) while Ms. Potts just grins. 

Stark actually shakes on it. “Don’t disappoint me, Lewis.” 

What the fuck has she just gotten herself into? 

GiTP

Over the next few days, Steve doesn’t think about the book, doesn’t muse about the girl or get exasperated by missing pages or the damaged ones. Not at all. He’s much too busy getting up to speed on the 21st century, working, attending meetings, and punching the shit out of every heavy bag SHIELD can afford. 

Since awakening, a restlessness has been eating at him, tearing up his insides with more efficiency and devastation than the ever-present grief and loneliness of being outside of time. 

Something is coming. (Something is _always_ coming). He knows that much, can feel it from the depths of his bones to the ends of his hair, but the source of the feeling eludes him, the what and when are a mystery. And he _needs_ to know. Being in the literal dark for the past 70 years has made him appreciate the power of experience and knowledge, and having a blind spot grates on him to a point near outright paranoia. 

He tries to lose himself in the rhythm of his fists against leather when he detects a note of some indefinable scent that makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle, the warning made all the more pronounced by a sudden shift in the air currents cooling the sweat of his skin. Near silent footsteps, a distinctive gait, has him rolling his eyes before executing a side step twist, catching Natasha’s wrist in one wrapped hand just before her fist slams into his head with full force. 

“This how you greet all of your friends?” He’s not quite growling, not quite dead pan. They _are_ friends, he knows. You don’t fight for the world beside someone and NOT come out as friends. 

“Only the ones that need the practice.” 

Steve would like to point out he’s been in warzones with nothing but a prayer, prop helmet and shield and came out just fine, thank you very much; but he doesn’t, because he might agree that – in this world he finds himself in just now – he needs all of his wits about him. 

He turns back to the heavy bag. “I’m sure sucker punching me isn’t the only reason you came out here.” 

Natasha’s always busy. If she isn’t on a mission, she’s gathering intel. If she’s not gathering intel, she’s training or interrogating or playing spy games on the other SHIELD employees. Or, more disturbing, pitching potential dates Steve’s way in her – admittedly sparce - spare time. 

Because apparently, new friendship to Natasha means setting him up with any warm body with a level 5 or higher security clearance. 

“You’ve been brooding.” 

He starts punching. His rhythm is shit, eyes so focused they’re not really seeing, a headache blooming between his brows. If Bucky were here, he’d probably make a comment about the ever-present worry line just there. “Don’t have time to brood.” 

“Sulking, then. Either way, I don’t like it. It’s not a good look for you.” She’s moving around to the other side of the heavy bag, one deceptively dainty hand bracing against the swing. 

What is that expression the kids are using nowadays on that new-fangled internet? “Sorry, not sorry.” He tries to clear thoughts of Bucky, the past – a mere yesterday, aliens, this damaged New York, impossible things like gods on earth and _everything_. Instead, his traitorous brain thinks about pictures, about a girl with dark hair and glasses, of seeing the lines of her body for the first time in two dimensional monochrome. 

His eidetic memory pulls up the image titled “ _Life on the Dancefloor_ ” featuring the girl, D. Le – and a man. They are suspended in a dance, paused in dynamic movement, her loose hair and the fringe of her impossibly short dress flying around her face (bare of glasses) and body as her hand is locked in her partner’s. The man is tall and athletically built, posture angled slightly forward, poised to pull the girl toward him any moment. They are beautiful, smiling at each other, the innocent joy of the moment captured in the snap of one frame. 

At first, he had been surprised to find she is (was?) a dancer. She has the body of a siren, heavy curves and soft lines; but her legs are well muscled, her posture indicating a well-honed grace. 

Steve closes his eyes on the remembered image. The girl doesn’t only have a gorgeous body but a face that projects warmth and laughter and a hint of sass. He imagines she exudes life and fun and humor . . . fancies she is as free with her affection as he pictures her to be, hopes she is being given love in return. 

Another image comes to mind, he thinks it’s called “ _With Your Wings_ ”; and indeed, she seems to fly across the page in his mind’s eye. Again, her face is glowing and beautiful and in full color. Her skin is milky smooth, her lips painted a soft rose, and her bare electric blue eyes are wide open flames full of energy and happiness. Her body is suspended in mid-air, legs flung wide behind her and angled nearly parallel to the floor, her toes pointed out and heels reaching up to the ceiling. Her arms are flung back, the line of her shoulders is relaxed and flowing into the graceful articulation of each finger. 

Focusing there, on the natural flow of her body, the happy-serene-and-open grin painting her mouth, he sinks into his hips, punches out from his feet. He lets his eyes and face relax, the rhythm of his fists evening out just so . . . let’s the unease drain out from the top of his head down and out the soles of his feet. 

Natasha is patient, waiting until she sees his expression fall into a more contemplative expression rather than a stressed one. “You need a break.” 

He grunts in reply. Maybe he does. He’s only been awake about six months and much of that time has been spent being debriefed and tested, in combat training, fighting the Chitauri, and working cleanup. Coping with the reality of his extended sleep and assimilation into the modern world hasn’t been very high on his agenda, though he knows it should have been . . . should be. 

“Stark has your bike. It’s in storage but it’s been maintained over the years.” She has that look on her face, that probing look that tells him she’s trying to tell him to do something without actually telling him. 

Catching the heavy bag, he straightens to his full height and levels her with his best Captain look. “Just come out with it, Romanov.” 

“Take the bike. Go on an extended road trip. See things you’ve already seen, places you wished you had, take in the way things have changed and stayed the same. Take some _time_ for _yourself_.” 

It’s an attractive suggestion. His interest must show on his face, because Natasha sort of sways on her feet with a smirk before continuing. “And you should plan a stop in Lincoln, Nebraska.” 

“What’s in Nebraska?” 

“A friend. She’s already agreed to put you up for a few nights if you head that way.” 

Steve suppressed a groan. He should have known. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Think about it fast. My friend is only going to be there for a little more than a month. I would have introduced you before, but she suddenly became unavailable.” 

Figuring his workout is done for the day, Steve takes a seat on one of the benches lining the walls, wipes his face with a towel and starts unwrapping his hands. “I’ll think about it.” And he will, just not at this moment with Natasha’s gaze boring holes into him. 

Natasha knows she won’t get better out of him. “Let me know when you decide. I’ll let my friend know when to expect you.” 

Steve shakes his head, wondering why it’s so important to her. “I’ll do that.” 

She smiles at him, just as she turns to leave, in that way that tells him that she _knows_ something. What, he can never be sure; but it’s a thoroughly disconcerting look just the same. 

Choosing to ignore it for now and swallow down a fledgling sense of embarrassment, he waves her to stop. “Before you go, I have a favor to ask.” 

As she turns back to him, eyebrow cocked, Steve has a feeling that this favor is going to come back to haunt him; but he can acknowledge he lacks the measure of self-preservation needed to stop himself from asking. “I need to find a book. I think it might be a limited edition and the publishing house is one I don’t recognize (which isn’t saying much). Is there any way to track down a copy?” 

“Is this about that well-thumbed, damaged photo book you’ve been hiding in your locker?” Her smirk is sharper than the knives he knows she keeps on her person. He just gapes at her. _Caught_. “No worries, Cap. I’ll be happy to introduce you to online shopping. First lesson, Amazon and E-bay are your friends.” 

He sighs as he stands and Natasha continues, “And if they don’t have it, there’s always the black market.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me all sorts of trouble - not due to content but time constraints. Hoping the next chapter doesn't take as long to get down. 
> 
> That being said . . . 
> 
> Next Up: Darcy makes it home, Steve goes on a road trip, and Natasha plants a seed.


	4. Hipsters / Beneath the Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy arrives home; Steve starts out on a journey; and Natasha plants a seed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I didn't think it would take this long to write this chapter but then I decided to take the GMAT (passed) and now I'm studying for the Praxis II. I'm also a single parent, work full time, and my kid is in dance and drama classes. So, yeah, been kinda busy ^_~ Hope you enjoy the chapter! More notes following.

To say Darcy is exhausted by the time she reaches the airport at bumfuck o’clock in the morning (it was actually 3:45 AM) for her flight home, would be an epic understatement; and as she studies her reflection in the soap smeared, water splashed mirror, she can’t stop sighing. Heavily. Her normally pale skin is a bare bone white, rendered all the harsher by the contrasting dark shadows gathering beneath her normally bright eyes.

“Ugh.” She begins digging into her purse for concealer then gives up. It’s just her family. They’ve seen her looking worse. (The food poisoning incident of Christmas 2005 quickly comes to mind). Instead, she washes her hands a second time before gathering cold water in cupped fingers and splashing her eyes and cheeks. “Just a few more hours.” Then she will be in her childhood home, in her childhood bed with the blackout curtains and asleep for at least a few hours before she has to get into the studio to begin the grueling schedule her cousin Marta has (once again) banged out. 

When she is finally seated on the plane an hour later, it takes 4.5 seconds for her to close her eyes and sink into sleep; and if she snores a little to the amusement and disgust of her neighbors, it’s only warranted as she hasn’t had a wink for close to 48 hours.

Unfortunately, the nap is over before she can really rest so she feels almost drunk, limbs feeling more rubbery than solid, as she pulls her carryon from the overhead bin (nearly dropping it on some unsuspecting passenger’s head) and schlepping up the aisle to bid a barely lucid “Adieu” to the generally pleasant looking flight attendants and pilots. Finding baggage claim is a cinch. Finding her luggage is another story (after twenty freaking minutes looking for a vacant dolly). And then, when nearly everyone has cleared the carrel and only her bulky, heavy-as-rocks suitcases are the only ones left on the now-stopped belt, an achingly familiar voice booms, “GREETINGS, YOUNGEST SPAWN.”

Closing her eyes and swallowing down a laugh, Darcy feigns a look of disdain as she turns around to face the speaker with a flat, “Father.”

Jeremiah Lewis is a lean man of average height, seems to have a year-round sunburn around a face made for laughter, and wears his thinning dark hair around a proud, bald patch. He approaches with a goofy little swagger that Darcy had always grumbled embarrassed her but secretly loves. “Glad to see you got home safe and sound, baby girl. I can’t wait to hear all about the new job, new boss, and new digs.”

They meet each other halfway in a kind of rolling embrace that sways and tilts before coming back to center again. Darcy pats his back as she turns to the carrel to start figuring out how the hell she’s going to arrange everything on the dolly. “Haven’t started yet but I met Mr. Stark last night.” 

Working together, they get the luggage onto the dolly and start for the doors leading to the parking garage, when her father sighs mock-heavily, “I’ve got some good news and bad news. Which would you like first?”

“Hit me with the good stuff.”

“Collins has Jeffers for the week of the show.” He lets go of his side of the dolly, but Darcy easily takes up the slack, pulling it behind her with little trouble. His words put a little more pep in her step. She loves her nieces and nephews to bits and since her brother’s divorce she doesn’t see or talk to the seven year old boy half as much as she would like.

“So what’s the bad?” She is immediately suspicious when her dad begins rolling up his coat sleeves and stretching his neck. Upon reflection, she realizes she should have been suspicious the moment he stopped helping her with the dolly.

“Bennett hasn’t been able to find a babysitter for the royals. Possibilities are down to me and you, so I propose –“

“No.”

“- a little contest –“

“I have too much going on, dammit.”

“- and whoever gets to the car last – “

“Don’t you dare!!!” 

But he has already taken off at a full run while she watches him, with wide eyes and grinding teeth, his words echoing through the voluminous parking garage. “- has to look after them!!!!”

She gives in to the urge to stomp her feet then, looking at an errant traveler and pointedly waving her arms in the direction of her retreating father, “And that’s why I don’t visit more often!” 

Pulling her knit cap a little more firmly over her ears, Darcy starts after him before realizing that 1. She can’t see him anymore; 2. She doesn’t know where he is parked; and 3. Her desired and necessary nap is getting farther and farther away from her grasp.

Intently, slowly, she breathes out through her nose as her eyes raise heavenward for patience. “Fuck nuggets.”

*GitP*

Jeremiah takes pity on his daughter a full forty-five minutes after leaving her in the dust and by the time they make it to the house - whose house, Darcy doesn’t have it in her to care as she is half in a coma, half spitting mad. It’s a strange combination, one her tired brain is not equipped to deal with really, so she exits the car (leaving her dad to deal with her purse and luggage his damn self), staggers (and nearly face-plants) up the front steps, fumbles with the unlocked front door, grunts a greeting to her anxiously waiting older brothers and sister as well as their respective children (weathering a few hugs from said children with a dreamy kind of absent smile), before making her way up a short staircase to her old room (which had been converted – without her knowledge – into an office), shrugs her shoulders in a what-can-you-do useless sort of gesture and stretches out on the floor, practically asleep before her head hits the rug.

Collins and Bennet follow her trek, peek in to see their baby sister snoring and dead to the world, sleeping soundly on the floor of their dad’s new home office and grin at each other. 

“She must be really tired.” Bennett said.

“Should be asleep for a couple of hours at least.” Collins agrees.

Bennett nods. “We should let her sleep, keep the kids away for a while.”

Their grins only grow in the silence that stretches out, full and charged between them.

“Thinking what I’m thinking?” Collins has always been the instigator for their pranks. 

Bennet smacks him on the arm. “I’ll get the chalk.”

“I’ll get Bing.”

Then together. “Don’t tell dad.”

*GitP*

Darcy wakes to the sound of her smartphone, Janis Joplin wailing out “Maybe”. The sun is streaming through the window blinds right into her eyes so she squeezes them shut and stretches, aching only slightly from being on the floor for -- she squints at the far clock, glasses still perched on her nose - three and a quarter hours. 

Her boots had been removed as had her scarf and knit hat, and a blanket covers her legs, she notices as her hands came up to rub at her eyes and lightly smack her cheeks. Someone had set up a dressed air mattress, wedging it between where she had collapsed and the corner desk; and her purse and luggage lay on the makeshift bed and near her feet respectively. 

Making to rise from the floor and get down to business, Darcy stretches again, wriggles her toes before a stripe of white against the dark of her sleeve catches her eye. Close inspection of the powdery marks on her wrists, finger tips and ankles bring her to the realization that someone (she knows it’s her siblings) has traced an outline of her body on the floor. 

Because they all have a sick sense of humor, and she’s sure there will be pictures later that will pop up all over social media. 

She grins to herself. It’s good to be home.

The bathroom across the hall has new wallpaper and still smells of glue, but it’s not the lingering scent that has Darcy wrinkling her nose. No, it’s her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, one side of her face made up to look like a strange faux-Picasso painting. 

Apparently, the kids got into the prank action too. 

Preserving their artwork, she washes her hands and forgoes washing her face, cackling loudly so that the bodies moving around downstairs can hear. Shrill screaming erupts in response, making Darcy laugh.

She runs down the steps and catches a zooming four year old Countess in one arm before swooping a slightly larger Duchess over her opposite shoulder, doing her best impression of a Thor-laugh while she whirls with the two kids. The shrieking is enough to finish waking the sluggish parts of her brain.

Soon enough, they are all breathless, shining faces, and staggering into the kitchen, giggling, where Bennett is going over notes for a new song, Bing is nursing a steaming cup of tea, and their father is cooking something that smells like blessed bacon. The girls (Darcy figures the boys are off doing something sporty) run to their mother and their juice boxes at the table while firing question after question about New York and the aliens and He-who-must-not-be-named aka Thor – code name Thomas - (because Aunt D signed about a gazillion papers that says he is a S-E-E-K-R-I-T). Darcy just takes it all in and tries to answer everything even as her stomach gives a growl that seems to echo.

“Well, hello to you too.” Bennett stands to hug her then punch the monster in her stomach lightly. Her grin as she looks over Darcy’s face says it all. “Collins is waiting for you in the studio.”

“Hi everyone. It was a really nice flight, thanks for asking. Everything is fantastic in New York. I’m sorry I wasn’t more human when I got here. How is everyone? Thanks for the dead girl schtick. And the letting-the-kids-go-through-my-make-up-bag-no-it-wasn’t-my-expensive-stuff-thankyou deal. (I love my new look, kids, really. Yes, I will definitely keep it all on at least for tonight). Oh, you have bacon? Thank God, I’m starving.” The Duchess and Countess giggle merrily at her frank and jabbering deadpan before turning their attention to the bacon platter set on the table. Bennett is obviously fighting a grin as well.

“You don’t have time to eat right now; but we’ll save you some, promise. If we have any hope of finishing everything in time, you need to get in the studio right now. A break is scheduled every two hours.”

Darcy must look somewhat shattered at that because Bing pats her head from his seat. “We figured you needed sleep more than food.”

“Who the he—“ Bennett shoots her a pointed look before gesturing to the children, “Who the heck approved Marta’s goooosh darn schedule????” A pause and then a defeated, “I need coffee to deal with this.”

Her father is already handing her a cup with a barely suppressed smirk, eyes skittering over the work of art smeared on her face, made with just the right amount sugar and cream. “It’s so wonderful to have all of my lovely offspring home again. It seems like an eternity since I have had the pleasure of your collective presence under one roof.”

“It’s been 3 months.” Bing quips.

“And we’ve face-timed nearly every week since.” Bennett chimes in even as she bends to wipe up a small juice spill. 

Darcy merely heaves a put-upon sigh before ruffling her nieces’ hair and stealing a bite of Bennett’s bacon. There will be time to catch up later (if only to let them know this shindig is going to be televised straight to Tony Fucking Stark) . . . she _hopes_. “I guess I’d better get changed.”

She has just turned the corner to start up the stairs again when Bennet calls, “Don’t forget the babysitting!” before Bing’s voice adds, cajoling, “Remember to wrap your ankle!” And by that he means her left ankle which is scarred from two surgeries and now features a few screws holding it together. The ankle _he_ had been instrumental in breaking not once, not twice, but **three** times.

She takes her time wrapping it; but if she smacks him upside the head with just a smidge more force than usual on her way to the studio fifteen minutes later, Darcy figures she is more than justified.

It’s _really_ , good to be home.

*GitP*

It takes one night for Steve to make the decision to leave and another to begin on his way. 

He doesn’t own much – just a box of relic odds and ends SHIELD kept in a basement, the clothes on his back, and his bike, doesn’t bring a lot with him; but the book takes up a space of honor in one saddle bag alongside his compass, traveling first to Pittsburg, the Hershey theme park, and Washington D.C.

For once, he doesn’t have a real plan, just a map and some ideas. The lack of knowing . . . and _expectation_ in addition to the alien modern sights causes something cagey in him to rest, replaced by a sense of impulsiveness. 

In contrast, his study of _Heart of My Temple_ has continued in a methodical fashion. So much so, Steve does his utmost not to contemplate the reason for the fixation. He’s mostly successful, but – if asked – he would cite that his first impression of the work was correct. There is a loneliness reflected in the pages he can relate to.

Even the joyful, festive, and bright pieces provide a sense of isolation, a sense of being on the outside looking in . . . It's so strong sometimes, it's like a taste of loss. A prime example of this is "Beneath the Veil", which features his girl (he really needs to come up with a name for her) and another woman with lighter colored hair and slightly more mature features sitting close, foreheads touching and eyes closed. Their heads are covered by a bridal veil edged in delicate lace that seems to fade to nothing against the stark, marble backdrop of a church. 

There's happiness in the photo, the promise of marriage and love (for the older woman, he knows, as she is the one wearing white), a bright future . . . The veil creates a hazy wash of their faces in profile but the vividly painted smiles are achingly visible through the gauze. The hint is there that, though they are visible, the women are in their own world together, _veiled_ , as it were, with the photographer (and the observer) firmly shut out. 

It is a running theme that travels throughout the pages and snapshots. Many of the subjects have their backs turned toward the camera, giving an even more blatant impression of a viewer in isolation. That impression is made all the more stronger when he thinks of his own isolation from all that is familiar; from the people he knew and loved who lived, experienced the unfolding of this world he finds himself in, and died; and from the now. Yet, for all the aloneness that grabs and tugs at his heart, Steve cannot ignore the warmth laced around each subject. 

Another photo, one of his favorites for the strange sense of honesty it conveys is “Hipsters.” His girl is there again with the man she had been dancing with in “Truth on the Dance Floor” but they have left off their costume and glitter, standing side by side in shorts, tank tops, and bare feet at a kitchen counter. Her form seems tiny next to the man’s, her short stature only more obvious with the absence of dancing heels (and the less he thinks of the obvious hourglass figure beneath the clothes, the better). The sink is running near the girl’s elbow as they both peel potatoes. Their backs are to the camera but like the dancing photo, their faces are turned toward each other even as their hips meet between. 

Studying the composition, he gets the impression they are bumping each other with some force as the girl’s opposite leg is planted firmly while the bumping leg has a slight bend at the knee. She’s sticking her tongue out beneath shut eyes and the non-knife wielding hand is brandished, fingers flicked out, as a wet potato peel flies at her face, stuck in a limbo just beyond her nose. 

Especially charming is the subtle bounce of her hair, swinging violently toward the viewer, a long, thick trail of dark brown silk. He can almost feel the strands against his fingers; can almost hear the laughter caught in that little kitchen somewhere unknown to him at least a year or two ago.

It seems voyeuristic to have this little moment of carefree play between two people who obviously have a deep bond with each other. He can _feel_ the heaviness of the history there, it reminds him of all the memories he and Bucky created over the years of their friendship, all the memories they never got to share. But there is also an _invitation_ , almost a beckoning. The moment may seem private; but he can’t help but imagine the pair turning about to see the photographer, then laughingly bringing her into their private little world.

Steve rubs at his eyes, fingers digging into the balls, trying for counter pressure to ease the slight twinge there, before sighing out at the stillness and turning into the motel bed to place the book on the nightstand, switch off the light. 

His thoughts drift to the girl, D. Le – always to her – wondering if she’s out there somewhere dancing in a ballroom, traveling the world, or sharing a meal with a family of her own . . . if she’s happy or feeling every bit of loss the photographs somehow convey; and that leads him to his own loss, to Peggy, all the half-formed hopes and dreams he had before the crash, before the ice, the seemingly bottomless well of sadness and regret for wasting time, when there was only a war and a broken promise between them instead of nearly 70 years.

*GitP*

Natasha calls while he’s eating lunch at a fair sized diner in Richmond, Virginia. The place is sparsely populated despite the hour, and he keeps his back to the wall and face to the entrance. There’s a spread of seven family-sized plates across the table, four of which have been picked clean. His stomach is still growling, but the opportunity for a break is welcome.

She’s the closest thing he has to a best friend in this time, this new life; and he wants to thank her. It’s jarring, seeing how things have changed so dramatically (to him) while still remaining – fundamentally – familiar. The long stretches of open road, empty fields and endless sky remind him of times that are (now) distant but no less complex. He’s not at peace with the time lost; but he’s not quite as angry or desperate to return as he was a few months ago, and he wants to tell someone that, wants to share that resignation and build up. 

Shaking his head at his own good spirits, he smiles when he _doesn’t_ fumble at the touch screen, “Rogers.”

“Where are you?” Natasha never beats around the bush unless she doesn’t want you to know she is fishing. He also figures she might be just a little pissed off at him for losing his “secret” SHIELD detail. He knows certain higher ups – in government and SHIELD, including Director Fury – see him more of an asset to control and guard until they need protection rather than a man. The knowledge doesn’t amuse him in the least. _He grins, posture falling to lean elbows along the table edge. “Hello to you too. How’s the family?”_

“Alive. Where are you?” He doesn’t detect tension in her voice, isn’t concerned that his shield is needed at the moment. Her tone is more inquisitive . . . earnestly inquisitive, as if she wants something but isn’t willing to be blatant.

“Are you tracking this call?” Steve does trust Natasha. He does, but she’s still a spy. A spy on SHIELD’s payroll; and while he counts SHIELD as an ally, even plans on making himself available to the organization when situations call for his special skills, there’s still something hovering somewhere in the vicinity of the base of his spine that makes him wonder . . . just a pinch suspicious of their machinations and motives.

“If I were, do you think I would be asking where you are?” 

He sighs, mouth twisting between a purse and a grin. “Richmond.” 

“On the way to Nebraska?” There it is again. Nebraska. She had mentioned a female friend who was willing to put him up for a few nights before his decision to take this road trip; and Agent Barton – _Clint_ – had warned him of Nat’s affinity for matchmaking all of her single friends. His exact words were, “She’s about as subtle as a freight train crashing into a barn full of livestock.”

“I’m not planning on passing through Nebraska.” This isn’t a lie, isn’t the whole truth. He has no real plan as to the route or duration of this trip.

There’s a slight pause and he wonders what the woman on the other end of the line is thinking, ponders if his noncommittal answer is enough to deter future set-up attempts (if, indeed, that is what she’s up to).

Finally, her voice comes slowly, “Well, if you end up there . . . my friend has confirmed she has an extra room available. She just needs a bit of a warning before you show up on her doorstep.”

He’s not ready to meet anyone, not ready to let go of Peggy and everything that seems so close and far away at the same time. What was it Loki had called him? _The man out of time_. Ironic how he absolutely he feels the need for time to come to terms with the last seventy years he’s missed. “I’m really not comfortable with that idea.”

The waitress passes by and gestures with a water pitcher which he waves off before miming a signature for the check. The woman smiles and nods, winking flirtatiously. He’s pretty sure there were more buttons done up on her uniform shirt when he first arrived. 

“Look,” her breath is heavy but not from strain, he thinks, “when I call her a friend, I mean it as just that. This isn’t an attempt to get you a date. She was there when Thor appeared. She’s met Barton, Coulson, and myself – even Fury. She’s been thrust into our crazy world of espionage, alien invasion, and superheroes and hasn’t bat an eye.” Here she pauses though Steve is unsure why she is trying to convince him. “She’s delightfully _modern and normal_ , and I thought she would make you a good _friend_.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell her he thinks of her as his friend but knows her response would be _you’re adorable but people like us, we need all the friends we can get_. “I’ll think about it.” And he will . . . maybe. 

“If it makes you feel any better, she’s going through some things right now, says she’s not in a good place to start dating. ” From the shape of her words, he can surmise she’s grinning. 

He sighs, not quite sure why he feels the need to ask, but . . . “What’s this friend’s name?”

“Darcy Lewis. She’s a little younger than you, I think (the last several decades notwithstanding). If you do decide to stay with her for a bit, be warned that she won’t have much time to entertain you.”

As if he needed to be entertained. “I’ll think about it.” This time it sounds more genuine. This time he actually means it. 

Natasha’s voice is slightly thicker, more saturated with something he recognizes: affection. “That’s all I ask.”

Something warm settles into his bones, the assurance that someone cares and is looking after him and his interests. He hasn’t felt that in a long time . . . not since Bucky. “I’ll let you know if I decide to head that way.”

“I could give you her number and you could arrange everything between yourselves.”

“No. Thanks. I wouldn’t feel right, getting a girl’s information from someone other than herself.”

She chuckles and mutters something in Russian so softly through the miles even his enhanced ears don’t pick it up fully. The sound speaks of a quiet satisfaction. “Just let me know and finish your lunch. It’s getting cold.”

“Hey, how did you –“

“Talk to you later, Captain.”

He stares at the phone in his hand for a long time after the call disconnects and shakes his head. Of course she would know. She was probably in the next building watching him or something. So much for losing his handlers.

Steve finishes the rest of his lunch, pays in short order and walks out to his motorcycle where he pauses to look out towards the west. 

He trusts Natasha, and it would be nice, he thinks, to have someone connected but not fully part of all of this . . . danger and chaos. Someone without the many shadows a life of violence tends to cast. 

Straddling the bike, he starts the ignition and idles for a moment, trying to decide. 

And if this Miss Darcy Lewis is involved with just one Avenger, he will probably become acquainted with her eventually anyway. 

He makes his way to the ramp for I-64 W. Nebraska is still days away with the amount of stops he generally takes. There’s time to think on it as he’s promised Nat.

But Steve won’t lie to himself. There’s really nothing to think about. He’s already made up his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have a tumblr: oneandonlykysra.tumblr.com
> 
> We will start seeing Darcy's family a lot more after this chapter. I'll have a little guide drawn up and post it with the next chapter. I should note that Darcy's family is largely modeled after my own.
> 
> Next up: Darcy and Steve meet! Steve finds Natasha wasn't lying, Darcy really DOESN'T have time to entertain him at all.


	5. Spoon Full of Sugar / Pure Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy and Steve Meet! And Steve finds out Natasha wasn't lying: Darcy really doesn't have time to entertain him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Little Guide to Darcy’s family:　  
> Jeremiah Lewis – father　  
> Bingley Lewis – her eldest sibling; twin of sister Bennet, 32 years old; bachelor; works as a tv producer for a local network  
> Bennet Lewis-Heller – older sister; twin of brother Bingley, 32 years old; married with four children; has own business as a vocal coach and teaches vocal arts at the state college, has a PHD in the performing arts　  
> Collins Lewis – 2nd older brother; 29 years old; divorced with one child; has a band that tours the state once a year, is also a composer for jingles, television scores, elevator music, etc. – has started living with his ex-wife again　  
> Annie “Princess” Heller – Fifteen year old niece, Bennett’s oldest child　  
> Fiona “Duchess” Heller - Five year old niece, Bennett’s 2nd child　  
> Olivia “Countess” Heller – three year old niece, Bennett’s 3rd child　  
> Beckam “Dauphin” Heller – 8 month old nephew, Bennett’s 4th child　  
> Jeffrey “Jeffers” Lewis – 7 year old nephew, Collins’ only child　  
> Louis Heller – brother-in-law, Bennett’s high school sweetheart and husband　  
> Rhonda Claus – ex? Sister-in-law; Collins’ ex-wife whom he is now living with and has a friends-with-benefits type relationship　  
> Marta Spellman - much older cousin, family lawyer and general

It is three days in. Darcy is in her mother’s studio, standing by and leaning against the line of mirrors, hooded eyes seemingly unfocused and distant as music swirls around and twenty plus bodies move about the dance floor.　

The seeming absence of her gaze is what inspired the older students to begin calling her “The Shark” when she began student teaching six years ago. She would stare, eyes glazed, out into the fray then very slowly, casually begin circling the floor, meandering through the active space and skirting shifting lines to catch and correct a dancer’s mistake, soften a line, or make an attitude adjustment.　

This time; however, Darcy isn’t thinking about the dance presently unfolding before her (they pretty much have it down and don’t need her undivided attention); but of her own a few days ago when she first arrived home to 1. Return to the place she felt happiest and 2. Reestablish the partnership with her brother. 　

Collins had been waiting for her, walking through some random choreography while the sound system belted out an instrumental piece she wasn’t familiar with (most likely something he had written, performed and recorded recently). She had watched, amused when she caught sight of her hilariously made up face in the mirror, studying his form and clucking her tongue at how talented he was. 　

Then he caught sight of her and the way he smiled at her made her feel all of five again. 　

Collins always had that effect on her; and while she loved all of her siblings, Collins was her blatant favorite. He was eight years older and had become her designated babysitter and caretaker pretty much from the first time Mom got sick when Darcy was three. He had been the one to walk her to and from school; teach her to play soccer and softball; make sure she ate, finished her homework, and got to bed at a reasonable hour; give her driving lessons; and vet all of her high school boyfriends. Dad had simply been too busy with Mom's many appointments and caring for her after each chemo session. Bennett and Bing had been too preoccupied with their own pre-teen (and later) high school lives. 　 Collins had been the one to introduce her to ballroom dance when she was ten – just before he broke her heart and left home; and even through several partners, he was – without exception – her favorite person to dance with. (Never mind that he had chosen making music over dancing, they were still kindred spirits.)　

Moments later, he was bowing before her and holding out a hand in invitation, lips pursed and eyes watering with suppressed mirth at her unintentional fashion statement; and then, they were locked in a familiar frame and flowing across the floor in a flying waltz. 　

This, here, was where she had always felt most centered, at peace and in tune with memories of her mother, her goals and thoughts. Here was where her confidence dwelled, where the fire of passion surged in her veins, waking up every part of her to possibilities and creative expression . . . where she felt she most belonged. She always imagined this was how Jane feels when knee deep in science.　

“Stop fighting me.” Collins was usually soft spoken but here he was a seasoned teacher and his tone brooked no argument, only command.　

And Darcy had to admit, she had been fighting his lead from the first step, pulling on his hands here and twisting away a little there. She consciously softened her grip on his hand, tries to force her body into a more yielding degree of tension, but she ended up missing a cross-over and nearly pulled out of the frame entirely, breaking the glide of their steps.　

Collins halted their circuit without a word before leaving her to turn off the music.　

“Wanna tell me what’s bothering you?” He kept his back to her but she could see his face in the mirror, carefully neutral and not quite frowning. It wasn’t the reunion she had been hoping for but it was the one she had most expected.

It occurred to her then to fudge along, say it was nothing; however, if her performance hadn’t convinced her to let it all out, her mother’s number one, most important lesson did. Maria Lewis drilled into every one of her students – and especially into her children - that when entering her studio, you left your ego at the door because there was only room for truth on the dance floor.　

“Are you really selling the studio?” With her mother’s passing, the studio had reverted to her father’s ownership. Jeremiah had dabbled in ballroom as a teenager – it was the vehicle that propelled her parents together in the first place, but it was never his real interest. His first love had always been the written word not fancy footwork. 

Collins had been running the little business since Maria had fallen sick for the last time, and Jeremiah ultimately decided to offer it to his younger son on the cheap. Verity Dance Productions had been under her brother’s ownership for the last three years. She had only caught wind of the possibility of him selling through Bennett a few weeks ago but hadn’t put any stock in the news until she had seen the blank “For Sale” signs and ad drafts buried beneath some books on her dad’s office desk. 　

She had watched as her brother chose another piece of music, setting his iPod down in the docking bay before walking over to her and pulling her into a neat frame again as the music started.　

“It’s something I’m thinking about; but I promise I won’t make any decisions without your input.”　

Darcy had been sort of taken aback, something tickling her throat as she studied his buttoned up collar, “Just . . . It was mom’s . . . She loved this place.” _I love this place and I don’t want to think of it as not hers . . ._

His fingers gentled her chin up before ruffling her hair. “I know, kiddo. We’ll talk about it all soon.”　

She had nodded and set her worries aside far enough that their next dance was familiar, flowing, and flawless.　

Now, in the present, a few days later, Darcy can’t help but silently berate herself for not asking more questions like, _why_ (are you even thinking about this, C?), _where_ (do you expect our loyal students to find quality instruction?), _who_ (could possibly do a better job at this than you?), and _when_ (do you plan on making a decision about our mother’s legacy?)　

Rubbing her forehead and pinching the bridge of her nose, she shifts her gaze to take in her nieces, the Duchess and Countess, perched as they are, lying on their stomachs, atop the small mountain of folded work mats, quietly coloring in their coloring books. Baby Beckham, aka the Dauphin, is sleeping contentedly in his bouncer seat, dried up snot attached to his juicy upper lip. 　

There’s no denying her grin seeing them, and she wishes – not for the first time – that there was more downtime to play with them and Jeffers. At least she’ll be able to see them, from her vantage point in babysitting and – later – instructing them for their parts in the show.　

She’s making funny faces at the Countess who has lost interest in her coloring when the music and movement in the room grinds to a halt. Darcy refocuses for a moment to critique and suggest a few adjustments before barking out, “Again. From the top.” 　

As the music and the dancers begin again, in sync, she meanders around to the back of the room near the mats and sits between the little girls, petting their hair while the performance repeats, thinking over today’s ‘to do’s.　

Despite the errant wood dust (from set building), the steaming stank pile of body heat and humidity due to the broken A/C, rehearsal is going well and they have all been keeping to Marta’s schedule like clockwork. Darcy decides she’s just proud enough to accept a large chunk of responsibility for that. She has been working all year on choreography during her off hours (and sometimes her on hours – Jane never has to know), making videos and notes and sending them to Bennett and Collins and Bing for feedback. Everyone involved has been practicing the final agreed upon versions for months now making Darcy’s job of supervising rehearsals and esthetic tweaking just a little easier. 　

During her next two breaks she is planning to start sorting through hers and the children’s costuming pieces, consult with Bing about the technical aspects of the second opening number, maybe play some soccer with the kids (i.e. run after them while they kick the ball towards the goal in the backyard); and when she finally leaves the studio for the day, she will catch a quick (but fragrant) shower, maybe indulge in a little silence . . . possibly watch a little television or catch up on whatever amount of sleep Marta’s fucking awful schedule will allow.　

The music is coming to a close and the current group is taking their last positions when Duchess pats Darcy’s hand. “Becks poopied.”　

Darcy looks down at the sleeping baby at her feet and sees the yellow mush that is breastmilk poop slathered on the seat and inexplicably exploded up the child’s back. She shakes her head and laughs a little before telling the girls to stay right there, dismissing the ‘class’, grabbing the filled-to-the-brim diaper bag and taking the serene if soiled baby, seat and all, into the lobby bathroom.　

She mumbles to herself that it is always important to be flexible and allow for the unexpected.　

　 

*GitP*

　 　 Natasha is in the middle of a fire fight when she feels the buzz of her cell phone against the side of her calf. For all of three seconds, she imagines taking it out of her boot holster and seeing Phil’s codename emblazoned on the screen, and then his loss comes crashing in again. When she does peek at the phone to see “Mon Capitaine” winking at her a hundred Russian curses aimed at Tony Stark come to mind as she debates internally if she should answer.　

And then she remembers that he should be approaching Darcy’s hometown, executes a perfect cartwheel into a tight roll behind a beat up, rusted metal wall and promptly thumbs her passcode. 　

“I’m working.” And if the tightly clipped syllables of her voice aren't enough to convince him, the boom and ping of three bullets exploding near her head through her metal shelter says it all.　

"I can call back later." Steve sounds nervous, like there's a bank of words reserved and waiting to roll off his tongue in a messy ramble. Natasha can practically smell the sweat even as she runs, ducks and lunges into a rickety shed as a fucking rocket launcher takes out her wall. Her hands are steady as she releases the empty clip from her gun to reload. 　

"I'll be finished in a few moments. What do you need?"　

"Are you okay?" His voice is steadier now, more commanding. The Captain's voice. And if she didn't already know he was half a world away, she would think he would be beside her in a hot minute should she give the word. 　

"Nothing I can't handle. Now, what do you need, Rogers?" Natasha hopes he wants an address, a picture, or anything to do with Darcy, really. She loves matchmaking - it's a welcome distraction from her past and daily worries; and, yes, she absolutely believes Steve could be deep levels of stupid happy with Darcy, but she had meant what she said last she spoke with him: Darcy isn't ready. Neither is Steve.

But they could both use a good friend.

And she can see the stress seething just beneath the surface of his skin. Steve needs a vacation . . . with normal people and conversation that does not include battle plans, violence, espionage, alien tech, or any other subjects involving mass death, destruction, or the apocalypse. Darcy and her family can give that to him, she knows.

From miles between, he sighs. Heavily. It sounds a lot like resignation. "Can you send me your friend's address?"

Cocking her gun and paying close attention to Barton's voice in her ear, Natasha tries to repress a smile before it reaches her eyes (she's a killer . . . an assassin, but she would rather not look like a psycho while doing her job). "I'll text it to you in a few." 

She's already moving toward the explosions and gunfire outside, breathing in the smell of gunpowder and ozone with something resembling relish. Her features are schooled into a non-expression as she shoves down all the concern, affection, and bubbling hope she feels for her captain and new friend. "You won't regret this, Steven. Have fun and relax." She spares one more grin, poised to disconnect the call, her shoulders squared as she prepares to launch herself into the fray.

His guffaw almost, kind-of, maybe sounds close to a hysterical giggle, and she can't imagine a more adorable sound. "It'll be nice to be around a normal family again."

*GiTP*

"This family isn't normal." Darcy muses around a mouthful of Pringles, lying upside down on her dad's recliner, watching a _Naked and Afraid_ rerun. It's 8:30pm, she's dressed in booty shorts, her snuggest sports bra, and a ripped up gray shirt (that gapes at the neck and makes her shoulders look fabulous); and she really, really needs to get some sleep. Today had been rough featuring the disastrous first rehearsals for her own dance numbers as well as Bennett's, Bing's, Collins' and Princess'. Princess' practice was, by far, the easiest as the sixteen year old was a phenom with perfect technique so didn't need too much tweaking. Meanwhile, it had been obvious to Darcy just how little her siblings had been practicing for the last year. She had been ever so grateful Bing wasn't going to be lifting her at all. He had fucking _dropped_ Bennett at one point, and while the older woman had landed on a gym mat and was just sporting a few bruises on her hip, Darcy is already working on how to tell her oldest brother he is no longer welcome to dance on the stage, in the house, or state, _anywhere ever_ after this. 　

"No family is normal, Dee." Collins is looking spiffy in a clean button-down and slacks. The smell of his cologne is near choking (and covers up the yummy scents coming from the kitchen). Darcy watches him balefully as he passes into the hall while buttoning a cuff. "Don't forget the food in the oven." 　

She grins, closing up the Pringles can and kicking her legs against the headrest of the chair. He had made good on his promise to cook his famous shepherd's pie before his "date" with his ex-wife-now-girlfriend (a whole six pans! to keep at least until tomorrow night's dinner), and Darcy is totally salivating over it. Once Collins finishes sprucing up, she'll be alone to go over today's practice, note the adjustments agreed upon on her Starkpad, set the coffee machine, eat her dinner while watching horrible reality tv shows, then off to bed for a five hour nap. Her dad wouldn't be back from his trip to Marta's for the show's final legal review till tomorrow morning when she would (finally) have Jeffers in the studio if he felt up to it . . . along with the Duchess and Countess . . . and all the folks for her pet project.　

Despite being bone tired, part of her is restlessly wondering if everything will pull together in time and also worried about the now-confirmed anonymous house-guest Natasha had - apparently - pointed in her direction. She hopes the person isn't opposed to cramped quarters as they would be staying in Collins' old room which sported a twin-size bed and all the nostalgic crap her father refused to get rid of, piled all around the room in little pockets of bulky boxes and too full trash bags. She figures the traveler is most likely Clint - whom she knows will appreciate the food, the company, and not mind the small space - on some mission or other, the secrecy part of some spy-ish plan to protect his identity. Darcy gives a useless shrug. She'll straighten it all out once he arrives . . . anytime now (or so Natasha had led her to believe this afternoon). 　

She just hopes its not one of SHIELD's other, menace to society and iPods, jack-booted thugs. Because it would be a total waste of shepherd's pie and bed space. 　

A firm knock interrupts her reverie. _Speak of the devil . . ._

　 "Just a minute!" She calls and decides to go for it, throwing her legs over her head so that she backflips off the chair. She grins as she gets to her feet and poses like a gymnast who just nailed her landing before swaggering to the door. 　

Giving her messy bun a careless little pat, Darcy throws the door open with mouth open to say "What up, bro?!" but when her eyes rise and rise and rise to take in the man in the entryway, everything _stops_. Like the world just slows down in its rotation and she can't blink or look away or breathe or speak (aside from a very dignified, not-at-all embarrassing prolonged squeak) or move, just stands there with her mouth hanging open beneath wide, wide eyes as her brain tries but fails to comprehend the hotness at her door. (In the part of her brain still working, she’s absolutely blaming Thor.)

Hotness that is staring at her with something resembling shock. She's not sure why, thinks it a little cute . . . a little strange. Unless he's not accustomed to women answering the door in skimpy dance wear . . . or maybe her hair is acting crazier than usual . . . or maybe he thinks he's just entered into a domestic abuse kind of environment what with all the bruises on her arms and legs visible because, yeah, skimpy dance wear. Distantly, she knows she's never been so unhinged at just the sight of a guy (not even Thor – although there was all sorts of appreciation going on); and she can honestly say no man has ever looked at her the way this dude is currently studying her either. 　

Pushing up her glasses, she knows she is turning either fushia or tomato (either one is possible with her complexion), Darcy tries for a nonchalant kind of slap to her face and weakly, "Um, wow, hi. You are definitely not Clint. How can I help you?"　

She immediately wants to smack herself again, sees the duffle bag slung over his shoulder. But he gamely clears his throat (which does nothing because his voice cracks on the first syllable of), "Natasha sent me." He brings a hand up to swipe through his hair, and she bites down a giggle when she notices he's sweating. "I think I might have the wrong house. I'm looking for the residence of Miss Darcy Lewis."　

And then it's like she can literally hear her brain make the connection between the face and the eyes and the body (holy shit would she love those hands to just power lift her into a rotation like right this second because even in the leather jacket she can tell his arms must be -- _damn_ ) and, "I'm Darcy Lewis, and you are Captain Steve Rogers."

　 His stupidly beautiful mouth looks like it can't decide if it wants to say something or smile, but his teeth catches his bottom lip, and Darcy gets all warm all over because he is so adorkable it _hurts_ in a tingly, static-electricity kind of way. She's not much better, honestly, mooning at him (but she's sure he must be used to that kind of thing . . . or maybe not, he's only been unfrozen for like six months, and she's totally being rude to a house guest and there's food to eat and sleep to be taken and then tomorrow --).　

"Are you going to let the man in, Darcy?" 　

Darcy jumps at Collins' voice, face crumpling into an apologetic kind of tentative smile. "Right, you must be tired. Just follow me." She turns, overcompensates and crashes face first into the door frame. She yelps, holds to her stinging nose as her eyes tear up and her free hand waves the newest Avenger of her acquaintance into her home where he will sleep . . . down the hall. _Jesus_. 

　 Collins falls into the role of host a bit more smoothly than she does, approaching and shaking the hand of Captain America and welcoming him, apologizing for Darcy's clumsiness ("My sister is usually a lot more graceful."), thanking him for his service and not being weird _at all_. Collins is - easily - the most down-to-earth of all of them. Meanwhile, the Captain ( _is Steve too informal?_ ) seems to take up all the space in the room in the best possible way.　

Through the pain and embarrassment, Darcy has to admit to herself that she is acting like a groupie and it needs to fucking _stop_. 1. Because that whole scene does not jive with her self-image; 2. Because he probably gets enough of that kind of shallow shit on the daily; and 3. She really doesn't have time to even attempt a harmless flirtation. As it is, her five hour nap is probably going to be closer to four hours . . . possibly three. She's going to be _shit_ tomorrow.

　 Collecting herself, Darcy pushes her brother to the open door. "Collins was just on his way out for a date with his ex-wife-now-girlfriend, whom you will most likely meet tomorrow with the rest of the family."　

Collins throws her a fussed look. "Behave yourself, Dee." 　

Darcy grins while shaking her head at Mr. America's bemused expression and very calmly, not rude at all, slams the door on Collins' behind. She claps her hands together, focuses fully on her guest. "So, I guess, first, the grand tour and then food?"　

Captain/Mr. America/Rogers - damn it, what's the right form of address here? - smiles at her (looking weirdly relieved about the eyes) on a little sigh that breaks his rigid posture, broad shoulders (that make her think of lifts and stunts and all kinds of dance-y things that require a strong, stable partner) and it’s like her ovaries, which she thought long dead from apathy, come alive and take notice. _This man_ , she thinks, is gonna cause her all kinds of trouble. The kind of trouble she doesn't want and hasn't been looking for.

　 "I could eat," he says. Of course he could. She had read his file after the attack on New York, had whistled with appreciation at just how many calories a day it takes to keep him marginally satisfied and in top shape.　

As she leads him through the house, she wonders if she should also thank him for his work during World War II, for - you know - surviving, and coming back to fight another day; but something about just the thought of it smacks wrongly to her. She's not sure why. Just like she's absolutely not sure about why he keeps giving her this surprised look of recognition that makes no damn sense. She would have remembered meeting him before, and she totally didn't.　

Instead, she asks if he minds if she turns the AC up at night (she likes to snuggle under the blankets with icicles forming at the tip of her nose), and says she hopes the spare room is large enough to accommodate him ("Sorry about the mess. I promise I'll have someone take care of it first thing tomorrow"). He assures her whatever makes her comfortable is fine ("I tend to run hot." _Don't giggle, Darcy, just don't._ She totally giggles at that), and that it couldn't possibly be worse than sleeping outside (her mind supplies, like in the countryside during a world war). 　

She leaves him to get settled, to set up the dining room (which she had neglected because she had been expecting someone she knew and was all about the tv trays) and fetch the pies out of the oven. She figures she'll take half of one and leave the rest for Steve . . . Captain . . . Mr. Rogers/America (Collins can always make more), gets some cups and utensils and tries to remember if there is ice cream in the freezer. Briefly, she wonders if a candle or two would be overkill and nixes the idea. Yes, he's an Avenger and the kind of stinking hot that pushes all of her buttons; but he's a guest and has so far racked up about a million 'awesome' points just by being polite, removing his shoes at the door, actually talking to her face instead of ogling her boobs for a hot minute before parking in front of the tv like he rules the place.　

"Is there anything I can do to help?" He's in her kitchen, watching her with this intensity that has her skin prickling. _And a million more brownie points goes to --_ 　

"What do I call you?" It's abrupt, actually rude, the way she doesn't answer the question but poses one of her own. She back pedals quickly as she carefully cuts into one hot pie. 

"Sorry. I've got everything down, just have a seat." He remains standing, that bemused expression still there and tempered by something resembling humor. ""It's just SHIELD and their NDAs and I have a code name for everybody. Like Thor is Major Tom or Thomas and Clint is Willy (for William Tell) and Nat is Anastasia to name a few, so I was just wondering if you had or wanted a code name too. And my family's cool about all this so they won't go all fannish on you." She pauses, glancing at him with a slight grimace. "'cept maybe my brother Bingley . . . possibly my nephew."　

The sometimes star spangled man just smiles assuringly, warming her up from the inside. "Just Steve is fine . . . or Grant if you really think another name is necessary." 　

Once the food is plated, one slice for her, half a pie for him (to start), and drinks are poured, she is about to tell him to have a seat again when he legit pulls out her chair for her. She doesn't remember anyone other than family doing that for her; and though she's an angry feminist, she knows good old fashioned manners when she sees it, doesn't take offense, and is mortified to find herself blushing again ( damn her pale skin!) as she smiles, takes up her napkin and mumbles her thanks.　

_So. Much. Trouble._

*GiTP*

Steve doesn't sleep that night. At all. He tries - tossing and turning on the twin-sized mattress that is just about 6 inches too short for his full frame - for hours until he gives up around 3 AM to haunt the house . . . _home_ . . . he finds himself in. He's simply too keyed up and conflicted for rest, wishes he were a little more familiar with the area to feel free enough to go for a run. 　

Because it's the girl from the photobook; and it's surreal to see and recognize her even though she's slightly older, in real-time locomotion, and her voice isn't what he imagined (it's better). And all he wants to do right now is talk to her, find out everything about her, the pictures in the album and the photographer. He wants to know where she fits into this world - his world - with Natasha and the Avengers and all of its myriad dangers. He wants to know _her_.

　 But Darcy had finished her dinner quickly, apologized for having to excuse herself so quickly and told him he had free run of the house and her vehicle, directing him to the keys hanging inside a false cabinet near the stove and saying, "I'll be at the studio all day tomorrow. You're welcome to drop in any time; but if you need a guide around town, you'll have to ask my dad . . . he'll be home sometime tomorrow night." 　

Apparently, Natasha had been correct in her assessment: Darcy _didn't_ have time to entertain him. Not that he would ever expect anyone to entertain him. It was just sort of jarring how she had taken him in so easily and without any of the usual uncomfortable, boldly intimate questions about life before the serum, life being Captain America, his romantic and sexual history, etc. etc. In fact, the only questions she had asked him were of the mundane variety about his trip thus far, how long and how far he was planning to go, and how was he liking the twenty-first century. 　

Not once did she bring up Captain America or the Avengers. Neither of them brought up Natasha again. 　

But in no way did Steve feel she was avoiding the reality of his full identity. Her manner was easy, comfortable, as if she considered him an old friend rather than a new acquaintance with mutual friends; and she didn't laugh outright when he became tongue-tied or stumbled over his words . . . Okay, she giggled (with a little snort that made his hands tingle), but the sound didn't make him self-conscious or even more nervous. Instead, he found himself laughing along with her, a blush going hot at the back of his neck. 

And it was nice - sharing in a conversation that flowed so casually and without subterfuge, censure, or ulterior motive. He hadn't wanted it to end; but Darcy had looked progressively more tired until she simply leveled him with a warm smile and explained she had to be up again in a few hours.　

So he had risen from the table along with her and offered to do the dishes so she could go straight to bed (he wasn't tired at all), and though she was hesitant at first, insisting that she should really do that, she relented quickly after he pointed out the time on the wall clock, her face falling comically into an exaggerated grimace ("Jesus, only three hours to sleep!"). Not for the first nor last time, he wonders what is so pressing that she's working herself so hard. 　

He's not so ignorant to this time that he didn't recognize her skimpy clothes as active wear; and during the hours since she had left him to his own devices, he had heard her stir through her bedroom door, listening to the rustling of her body twisting against sheets, punching her pillow, her harshly whispered curses about "the studio" and "Marta" and some "schedule" that was "fucking impossible".　

From the picture book, he knows she dances and wonders if her preoccupation has to do with that. He would like to see her perform, himself; but doesn't know how to ask or open the subject without giving away that he . . . "knows" her. 　

But he acknowledges he'll need to tell her at some point. To keep it to himself, to essentially _hide_ , isn't his modus operandi nor would it be conducive to a healthy friendship. If friends is what they will become. He hopes so.

_At least._

　 Rubbing his face with both hands, he groans softly and takes a stretch, finding himself in front of a framed picture identical to the one printed on page 23, _Spoon Full of Sugar_. It’s an older picture, he thinks, Darcy is dressed in a pretty school uniform sitting atop a pile of bodies, prim with her finger tips resting on joined knees. Her face is in profile as she looks to the side and down, smiling evilly into an older girl’s face – the same girl in the bridal picture. The other girl is sprawled on top of two boys, only their prostrate limbs visible. 

Steve thinks – based on height and build – the boy crushed beneath the siblings is Collins. 

There’s so much shared love and humor in the body language and expression on Darcy and her sister’s faces. He can almost hear the delighted shrieks and laughter. It’s a warm image, taken at just the right moment between stillness and movement. He can imagine one of the brothers finding the strength to unseat Darcy to tackle her in retribution. 

The picture sitting next to it is similar but one he hasn't seen before, a perfect reflection of familial affection. This one has Darcy arm-in-arm with an older gentleman in a suit that has her smile (her father maybe?) and dressed in an airy gown that falls over her body in waves of flowing silk. Her other arm is taken by another gentleman in glasses and formally dressed. Flanking the father’s other side is Darcy’s sister (in a matching gown) and Collins. They are all connected by arms and hands, their faces brimming with happiness and mirth. Darcy, her father, and the other gentleman (possibly another brother?) are all obviously laughing. 

A blind person could see these people loved and enjoyed each other.

And Steve is far from blind. He smiles softly as he stands in the hallway and allows himself a moment to be glad he came.

*GiTP*

When Darcy "wakes" (not really because she was never in "sleep" to begin with), she is disoriented and angry as a hornet whose nest has just been knocked down. "Fucking Marta." She seethes while brushing her teeth. "Fucking schedule." She bites out as she runs a brush (or tries to) through the huge mass of intricate knots her hair has become. "Fucking ass-sucking alarm clock." She bangs around the kitchen, half blind without her glasses and not really giving a shit. "Fucking air mattress." She squats to half crawl into the lower cupboards looking for a frying pan. "Fucking --"　

"Darcy?"

　 Her heart slams into her throat as her head slams into edge of the counter when she jumps, hands grabbing at the top of her head even as she falls to lying on the floor, singing out a slew of curses. Steve is at her side in a nanosecond apologizing and asking if she's okay and looking as if he has no idea what to do with his hands; and if her brain weren't so addled with general exhaustion and pain, she would totally just outright forgive him.　

But she doesn't, blinking up at him when the pain recedes enough to foster normal eye functions. "Can you dance?"　Because that question has been _burning_ every other thought.

He's watching her with a serious face, like he thinks maybe she needs medical attention. "Um . . . no. Never had the chance to learn."　

_Damn it_. Darcy gives a mental shrug. _Worth a try_.　

She's sitting up now, rubbing the slight bump forming at the top of her head through the strands of her ponytail, and regards him with a slight squint, admires the breadth of his shoulders beneath the white cotton undershirt. "Would you like to learn?" The hit on the head must have knocked some of her good sense loose because that is totally not what she had planned to say. In her head, it went more like _It's ok dude. You are forgiven. And I'm sorry for waking you if sleep is something you were doing just now._

She doesn't have time to teach anyone anything; and she's pretty goddamn sure he would rather _jump out of a plane_ than take lessons. (He totally would. As mentioned, she's read his file.) Particularly since she apparently becomes a total klutz in his presence.　

But he doesn't answer her question, merely watches her searching fingers test the tender spot, "Are you sure you're alright? I can call someone or drive you to the hospital to get checked out."

_Pfft_. Firmly, she rises without assistance and watches him do the same, wanting to roll her eyes heavenward for the muscle control he exhibits without even trying. (Good Lord, she needs to stop evaluating him as a prospective dance partner because that is - apparently - not going to be happening to her utter and complete disappointment.) Instead, she gives him two thumbs up, "I'm good. Promise."

Steve is still observing her with no small measure of doubt so she blows out a breath and offers, "I'll be heading to the studio as soon as I get some coffee, toast and bacon in me. Collins and Bennett will be there, so I won't be alone."

She smiles when he visibly relaxes a bit then asks if he would like to join her for breakfast.

Her entire body feels like it’s on fire for the grin he carelessly throws her way. ( _Does he know what that look does to people? He must know. Has to. No way he can’t know with the lips and the teeth and the cheek bones . . ._ ) “I doubt you’ll be on time if you have to cook that amount of food.”

Seriously. She can barely comprehend what he just said. Must be the lack of sleep. _Right_.

And he’s still talking. “I can cook for both of us and bring your portion to the studio.”

_He just earned ALL the points. No more points to be given. Nope._

Distantly, she knows she’s gaping just a little; and no, she’s not proud of it, but she’s also pretty sure no one would ever begrudge her that reaction. With monumental effort, Darcy manages – barely – to act like a normal, decent human being, turning on a heel to start fixing her coffee, even if she is very into (and vaguely jealous) that someone could look _that perfect_ even a bumfuck o’clock in the morning. “I’m a horrible host because I will take you up on that offer. Everything is in the fridge, the pantry is that door there and the cookware is in the bottom cabinets.”

He’s still blocking the entryway with his bulk, watching her with that ridiculously attractive smile as the quiet stretches out, and she suddenly realizes, _He’s checking me out!_ She had ditched the cover sometime in the night and didn’t care to put it back on when the AC was still out in the studio so it was just a red sports bra and black booty shorts for her.

As if he can hear her thoughts, his face suddenly reddens as he shakes his head slowly, chuckling. “You _are_ a terrible host, but I won’t hold it against you. You seem to have a lot going on.”

The reminder has her grabbing for her glasses near the coffee maker and looking at the wall clock and wincing. “Shit. Bennett will be here with the kids any minute.” She starts checking her dance bag – skirt, pointe, jazz, lyrical, tap (need to tighten that screw), protein bars . . . And then, because she really is an awful, awful host but can’t seem to give a shit about it when he’s so accommodating, “Hey, do you have plans for today at all?”

Steve sits heavily at the table, leaning forward to watch her more closely. “Not really.”

Darcy imagines he’s still a little concerned about her head. And maybe he isn’t too far off, because, “How do you feel about babysitting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who don't read my other story "At the Root of Yggdrasil", this chapter took a long time to complete. I had the bulk of it done a long time ago and I had planned to release it in April; however, I went to the ER on April 1 thinking I had a kidney stone and ended up discovering I had cancer. I had surgery April 13 to remove the tumor and also lost my kidney, part of my pancreas, a few other organs, and about 20 lbs of surrounding tissue. I've been recovering and am now almost 100%. I'm not TOTALLY satisfied with this chapter and I'm hoping the next chapter doesn't fight me so much. I find Steve very difficult to write sometimes.
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER will see Darcy and Steve taking a break; Steve reveals the book; and a camera crew arrives.


	6. Don't / Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy is distracted. Steve is likes being part of a family. Marta makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been working on this for what seems like FOREVER and I ended up finishing this chapter and the next chapter for At the Root of Yggdrasil at the same time. Editing is the only reason I'm posting this first. 
> 
> For those who wondered, I had my follow up CT scan in October and all was clear! Still cancer free!
> 
> Anyway, I had a HELL of a time ending this chapter. There were several places I could have ended it earlier but I wanted to get through some things before the next chapter. Enjoy!
> 
> A refresher on Darcy's family:
> 
> Darcy’s family:　  
> Jeremiah Lewis – father　  
> Bingley Lewis – her eldest sibling; twin of sister Bennet, 32 years old; bachelor; works as a tv producer for a local network　  
> Bennet Lewis-Heller – older sister; twin of brother Bingley, 32 years old; married with four children; has own business as a vocal coach and teaches vocal arts at the state college, has a PHD in the performing arts　  
> Collins Lewis – 2nd older brother; 29 years old; divorced with one child; has a band that tours the state once a year, is also a composer for jingles, television scores, elevator music, etc. – has started living with his ex-wife again　  
> Annie “Princess” Heller – Fifteen year old niece, Bennett’s oldest child　  
> Fiona “Duchess” Heller - Five year old niece, Bennett’s 2nd child　  
> Olivia “Countess” Heller – three year old niece, Bennett’s 3rd child　  
> Beckam “Dauphin” Heller – 8 month old nephew, Bennett’s 4th child　  
> Jeffrey “Jeffers” Lewis – 7 year old nephew, Collins’ only child　  
> Louis Heller – brother-in-law, Bennett’s high school sweetheart and husband　  
> Rhonda Claus – ex? Sister-in-law; Collins’ ex-wife whom he is now living with and has a friends-with-benefits type relationship　
> 
> (Darcy has a nickname that is revealed in this chapter).

Chapter 6: Don't / Reason

by Kysra

As it turns out, Steve is an _excellent_ babysitter and the mere glances she gets of him – huge compared to the two toddler girls, and infant boy – teaching them hopscotch, reading to them, carrying them on his shoulders, _changing diapers_ . . . well, it makes Darcy’s long-dead ovaries pull a Lazarus and remind her adamantly that, why yes sirree Bob, she _does_ maybe, possibly want kids someday (and the _sex_ . . . goes without saying).

Even right now she’s in the studio, very blatantly NOT paying attention to Princess tapping her tail off while watching him from the lone, itty-bitty window at the far end of the building, tongue peeking between her teeth and the fingers of one hand trailing back and forth across her collar bones. Steve is showing the kids how to play _Kick the Can_ in the yard . . . in his too-tight white undershirt in 55 degree heat? Cold? Who the fuck cares, she can see his rippling muscles and nipples from here. 

And . . . no. **No**. Her ovaries and uterus and every erogenous zone need to shut the fuck up because she’s not going to go down that road. 

**Yes**. He is insane levels of attractive; and **_yes_** , she’s absolutely thinking about how he would be in bed. But _**no**_. Because the fact is, she’s just not interested in casual shit anymore (been there, done that, got the wet t-shirt contest 1st place shot glass). She doesn’t have the time for it; doesn’t have the time to fall in love with him or make him fall in love with her just so she can spend a few weeks or months finding out how good (she thinks) it would be.

No. Whatever attraction she feels toward him needs to be kept innocent, objective, and _professional_. Dancing. Yes. Lifts. Absolutely. She still wants that. Wants to find out if he’ll be better at it than Thor (because, _of course_ , she asked him to lift her in New Mexico before the Destroyer came and fucked shit up). She thinks Steve would be (better than Thor). Thor – as much as she loves him, as much as she wishes he would get his ass back to Earth for Jane and science and shit – had lifted her as any other person would lift a sack of potatoes – coarse and graceless, like she was something to be thrown or merely carried. He was also a horrible dancer (something she had found out accidentally when she had turned on the radio while Janie was trying to reconstruct her stolen notes and urged their new Asgardian friend to move his moneymaker) to her eternal, bone-deep, disappointment. 

But Steve . . . he had some stage experience. Not dancing, no; but she had seen the film reels (what public school student hadn’t?) of his USO days. Hell, she had seen the more recent video from the Chitauri invasion. His body was made for combat but the way he moved could easily translate into the performing arts. He wouldn’t lift her like an inanimate object, she knew. No. With the right kind of instruction, he could actually be quite good.

She watched as he lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe invisible sweat from his face. Her mouth suddenly went dry. _So fucking good._

A crash breaks her out of her Steve-stupor. “SON OF A BITCH!”

“Language, Princess.” Darcy tears her eyes from Steve-o-vision with great effort (read: a hard slap to her face) and a (very mournful) sigh as she turns to regard her teenage niece, who is stooped over and rubbing her backside. 

“Can we just get rid of the chair routine, Aunt Ducky?” The girl’s heart-shaped face is red and pained beneath the tight blondish ponytail. Unfortunately for her, Darcy isn’t moved. (She had been more than happy watching Steve (and the kiddies) and notably NOT dealing with The Thing, thank you very much). 

Straightening the chair to standing, Darcy grimaces at being called “Aunt” (as she always does) by someone only 7 years younger than her, “No.” She holds a hand up when Princess opens her mouth to whine (no doubt). “The chair is not the problem. You’re jumping at an angle. It should be a smooth linear move. Straight up then straight down onto the seat.”

Walking to a spot a few feet from the offending chair and gathering focus with each clack of her own taps, Darcy executes the combination giving Princess problems, her feet beating out a staccato rhythm as they take her to the chair before she jumps and lands smoothly on the chair seat, continuing the choreography on the chair, on the floor, on the chair, on the floor and ending matter of factly, with a little bow and gesture for Princess to take starting position.

The girl does as bidden, obedient (if only here), and waits for Darcy’s cue to begin the sequence again. Instead, Darcy pulls up a second chair and very judiciously places it parallel, but several feet away, to the first one. “We’ll rehearse together this time, like in the Thing.” Yes. Rehearse. Dance. Choreography. No boys allowed . . . unless they need to be here. 

Princess grins widely at her through the mirror - the kind of grin that sends klaxons off in Darcy’s head. “You know . . . that Grant dude is totally mom’s ‘free pass’.”

Darcy chokes on her own spit, coughing, coughing, _coughing_ like she’s about to swallow her tongue, lose a lung or both. Because this is something coming out of a sixteen year old’s mouth (not too surprising but Darcy prefers to think of her nieces and nephews forever pure as the driven snow) without any kind of preamble; because her sister’s free pass has been widely publicized via word-of-mouth and facebook since Bennet was a teenager herself; and because this connects Bennet and just the _idea_ of sex (which is disturbing on its own and Darcy will never, ever be comfortable thinking about it no matter how many kids her sister pops out or how grown-ass mature she is). The suggested connection of Bennet and sex with STEVE is even more disturbing and makes Darcy sort of itchy in the same way poison ivy makes her itchy, like she wants to tear off her own skin and slap a bitch at the same time. (Nevermind, that the news of Steve being Bennet’s one allowed chance at infidelity has been well-established for years. For years he was dead. And now he’s _here and alive_ and **Darcy saw him first**.)

But _most importantly_ , this implies Princess may know who St – _Grant_ actually is which isn’t bad per se; but Darcy would prefer to keep that part of her world (the danger flavored science-fictiony part) from the kids.

Of course, with the Battle of New York, maybe it’s not that surprising except for the fact SHIELD has apparently done a shit job scrubbing all pictures and videos of Steve tearing off his cowl during the attack from the interwebs. (Unless, it’s more that Princess - a girl who generally doesn’t give two shits for anything non-dance or shopping related – may have actually paid attention to her World War II history lessons in school then bully to SHIELD IT).

Cheeks heated and no doubt _glowing_ with mortification, Darcy recovers (admirably if she does say so her-very-professional self) and gruffly waves off the momentary embarrassment. “Whatever. Your mother’s sex life is none of my business and hasn’t been since I was six and caught her trying to give your dad a blow job.”

“OMG Aunt Dee, gross!” Now it is Princess’ turn to blush and be scandalized. Still, the younger girl recovers just as quickly if not quicker, whining, “It’s just . . You seem pretty preoccupied watching him. “ A beat and then, “Not that I blame you . . . He’s pretty hot.” 

Caught and too proud to deny it, Darcy grins tightly at their reflections on the wall, poised and ready. “Shut up and dance, Annie.”

GitP

Steve enters the studio lobby with half of Mrs. Heller “Just call me Bennett”’s children (those he has come to understand are collectively “The Royals”), carrying the babbling Beckham aka “The Dauphin” and holding (more like swinging) Olivia “The Countess”’s hand. Fiona “The Duchess” is back at the house, tucked under a soft blanket and sleeping off the morning’s activities under the watchful eye of her grand-father whom had returned home a few hours after dawn. 

The meeting with the Lewis patriarch had been unexpectedly normal – reminiscent of his introduction to Collins and Bennett – with Mr. Lewis stating warmly that Steve was welcome to stay as long as he liked before introducing him to every framed and hanging photo in the house (and the wall of albums in the living room, bound to look more like encyclopedias). 

Steve had weathered the storm of information with good humor and interest, never letting on that he is already familiar with quite a few of the images and people in them. His reticence isn’t necessarily due to embarrassment or any particular reason he can identify exactly, and definitely not reactionary. The Lewises have all been welcoming . . . exceedingly so. 

Thinking of their open kindness, Steve smiles to himself and reflects on how even after less than half a day, there’s less tension in his shoulders, the tell-tale indention between his brows rendered shallow. 

No, he wants to bring his familiarity up to Darcy first for reasons he’s not ready to examine too closely, knows the subject should be introduced sooner rather than later; but now is not the time. 

There is music pulsing through the walls and behind the closed studio door. A male voice pronounces “Here I am” before asserting “to rock you like a hurricane” – the newfangled rock music breaks into his ear drums with the dynamic strains of an electric guitar. 

The squeak of the lobby restroom door can barely be heard above the almost static bass, when a boy – no more than nine years old . . . possibly younger – appears shouldering a bulky bag stating, _This is what an Awesome Dancer looks like_. He’s pale beneath the natural tan of his skin and thin (reminding Steve of his own pre-serum frame), apparent despite the oversized hoodie and baggy shorts.

Steve watches the boy- looking at his feet and ignoring his surroundings – as he pulls open the door then stops, dropping the bag and leaning against the empty doorframe. There’s an instability there, a tiredness in the shoulders that inspires a slight worry but the legs beneath the shorts are strong and planted solid. 

Stepping closer, Steve catches a glimpse in the facing mirror wall of what arrested the young man. There’s Darcy on her knees, loose dark hair all over the place, and fingers working a mile a minute at her midsection playing air guitar (which Steve only knows about from Tony – thanks). She has her bottom lip between her teeth and her eyes tightly shut behind her glasses as she rolls up from shins to ankles to toes to heels (impressive) to travel across the floor with shimmying shoulders and rolling hips – as Collins said – gracefully and never missing a beat.

Without really planning it, Steve finds himself squeezed (sideways) beside the boy who glances up at him for a moment before doing a double take and covering his mouth (which adorably features three misplaced teeth). Steve merely smiles and let’s go of Olivia just long enough to place a finger to his lips– for silence. Freed, Olivia bounces over to the boy and hugs him.

It’s then Steve realizes, _This must be Jeffrey_. Jeffrey is at once recognizable and strange. The boy in the pictures he’s seen around the house has more color, more life in his cheeks. The boy in the pictures has meat on his bones and bright eyes. As they watch Darcy prance around like a rock star, Jeffrey absently takes off the cap shadowing his features to scratch an itch just behind an ear. The reality of the change in this boy falls on Steve like a ton of bricks.

Because the boy in the pictures wasn’t bald. And with just a few months out of the ice, Steve _knows_ : The boy in the pictures didn’t have cancer.

A sudden squawk. Steve looks up just in time to meet Darcy’s startled eyes in the mirror, and then she’s falling face first into the hard floor. Jeffrey let’s out a loud, empathic hiss, and he’s just moving toward her when she pops up like a daisy on a sunny day, flushed, smiling and – notably – not looking at him.

She practically leaps to the ipod dock to shut off the music, briefly adjusts her glasses, then runs to Jeffrey, lifting him up with a little heave to twirl him around. Awkward, Steve merely stands, a question in his throat, baby warm against his shoulder, and notes the bandage wrapped expertly around one small foot.

“Oh my god, Jeffers! I’m stoked you’re here and all; but how are you feeling?” She sets the young boy down (his nonchalant whisper of “Nice save” doesn’t quite slip past Steve’s enhanced hearing), her hands cupping either cheek then tweaking his nose. Olivia is hopping around the pair like that pink drumming bunny he’s seen in commercials, repeatedly asking for a hug too.

Steve can’t help the smile stretching his face. It’s chaotic but also refreshingly _ordinary_.

Jeffrey calmly removes Darcy’s hands from his face and assures her, “I’m fine Aunt Dee. Don’t worry, today’s a good day.”

She seems satisfied by that answer for the moment. “Well, just let me know if you start to feel tired and we’ll take a break.”

Jeffrey grins. “No breaks in the schedule Dee.”

Darcy huffs a breath, aiming a wink at Steve that makes his blood fizz pleasantly. “Please. Fuck the schedule, Jay.” 

Apparently playing along, Jeffrey shakes his head, tutting. “Blasphemy. Aunt Marta’s probably raging on her way right now.”

Darcy throws her head back and laughs, and his eyes absently take in the exposed line of her throat to cleavage. “Then you can also tell her to kiss my ass when you see her.” She then turns her attention to him with wide eyes, her color high and lips pursed into a neutral expression while instinctively catching and hugging Olivia when the little girl jumps at her. “”S up?”

Several responses fly through Steve’s head, but what he chooses to vocalize is, “Are you okay? That was a really hard fall.” To the side, he thinks Jeffrey mutters, “Smooth, dude” under his breath; and he sounds so much like Natasha in tone, Steve has to fight a grin to keep the (very real) concern on his face.

“Pfft.” Darcy glances away momentarily and takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He recognizes the gesture, has done it himself sometimes; and the connection pulls up the few memories of their interactions, making him wonder if he’s doing something that makes her nervous or if it’s just _him_.

As soon as he thinks it, guilt crashes down. Just a smidge like maybe he’s being arrogant.

It’s more likely she’s just tired. The skin around her eyes is shadowed, dark against the pale of her skin. Her active wear seems permanently etched onto her body; and this isn’t the first he’s heard of the infamous Marta and her tyrannous schedule. (Everyone he’s met thus far has had ample complaints about it, whatever it is.)

He watches her closely as she turns Jeffrey toward him, curling an arm around the boy’s shoulders, her face shining with pride and palpable affection. It’s a look he’s observed on multiple Lewis features when they speak of family. “This is Jeffers, Collins’ son, my previously only favorite nephew. We all thought Princess was the pinnacle of the Lewis dance empire; but Jeffers here is internationally ranked.”

Jeffery , or “Jeffers,” shoots his aunt an incredulous look. “No, I’m not.”

She pats the bald of his uncovered head and rolls her eyes playfully, “Okay, _nationally_ ranked. But it’s only a matter of time, kiddo.” Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses when she glances up to Steve again, “He’s that good.”

For just a moment, just a second, Steve can swear he feels the earth pitch just slightly under his feet at the look, at how raw and beautiful she is. It shakes him, makes him wonder if he isn’t just a little infatuated . . . with her image because he always lingers just a moment too long when another picture of her reveals itself around the house, finds himself studying her expressions with more than casual (or professional) interest when she is nearby. He doesn’t know enough about her to call her a friend yet but he wants to . . . almost desperately. Cheeks pinking , Steve turns his attention to Jeffrey (an infinitely safer subject), offering a hand and smiling, “I look forward to seeing you perform one day.”

Jeffery’s face is beaming as he shakes Steve’s hand, the grip strong but the fingers small, boney, and frail. “That would be awesome! Are you staying for the performance, Capt—“

“ _Mister Grant_. Call him Mr. Grant.” Darcy breaks in, her hands coming up to gesture vaguely toward Steve’s chest before reaching for the baby and straightening his little shirt which had ridden up. Olivia, apparently starving for some interaction, starts chanting “Mr. Grant” over and over again while running around the length and width of the studio. 

Staring at his aunt for a moment, Jeffrey presents a comedic picture, a blank expression coloring his face before speaking slowly, pointedly. “Of all the things, all you could come up with is _his middle name_?”

Steve wants to own up to his fault in the matter, wants to laugh at the exchange, but doesn’t want to interrupt. He tamps down on the impulse, can’t help a quiet guffaw when the boy continues, “At least the other names were sort of creative and funny – especially Leonard – “ Here Jeffrey raises a hand just as Darcy, looking like Christmas morning, claps her hands together before thrusting a fist in the air, both of them crowing (with a slight hesitation and visible mental detour no doubt due to Olivia’s presence), “Fuh-racking Leonard.”

This time the guffaw is a full out chuckle. He has no idea who this Leonard is or what he’s done to earn the ire of the Lewis family, but it’s apparent the younger set is of a similar opinion as Olivia echoes her elders, jumping on top of a small stack of mats to spread her arms and scream, “FACKING LINNARD!!!” 

And then Darcy is talking amidst giggles. “I wasn’t the one who came up with the name, and we didn’t really discuss how long he would be staying.” She glances up to Steve, an unspoken question written on her face. “Just so you know, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like, and you have a free ticket to the memorial if you’re interested.”

_Memorial_? Steve is about to ask but Jeffrey jams his elbow into Darcy’s side before clarifying excitedly, “It’s a variety show thing the family does every year. For Nana. We’ll be dancing and singing and playing music and it’s usually pretty epic. “ He seems to come back to himself – a self-conscious young boy – and stuffs his hands into the deep pouch of his hoodie. “I mean . . . if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Glancing at Darcy, Steve notes the way her shoulders are set, high and tense, as she balances her weight on one foot, hiding the other toeing the floor. Uncomfortable again.

If he were another man, _Bucky_ , he might have given a sharkish kind of grin, said something charming; but he’s just little Steve from Brooklyn with a tongue that feels too thick for his mouth so he settles for an interested kind of smile, addresses himself to Jeffery. “Will your aunt be performing?” 

As if Darcy were not five feet to his left. As if he couldn’t ask her directly (because he really, really can’t bring himself too). He has a feeling she’s the kind of dame who won’t put up with being ignored (even in jest – as he is a little more than _completely_ aware of every minute detail of her facial and physical cues as well as the cadence and change in her breath) and too interested to see the results to stop himself. He – literally – bites down on the inside of his lip to keep from looking at her (though he can see through his peripheral that she is torn between mock outrage at the slight and wringing her hands in some measure of distress.

Jeffrey – like most young boys – is oblivious to the exchange. “Oh yeah.” The boy aims a blinding grin at Darcy. “She’s the best part.”

Darcy’s entire being seems to soften at the praise, her eyes glowing and slightly misty as she hides behind her hair, clears her throat, and shakes the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to this guy. He’s totally biased.” She huffs and gently cuffs him on the back of the head. “And wasting valuable practice time. Get on the floor and start warming up.”

Jeffrey giggles before shooting a knowing look at Steve. “It’s an honor meeting you, sir.” And then he’s off across the floor with his bag, falling onto his haunches near the mirror and pulling off his hoodie to reveal a wife beater beneath while Olivia rifles through the dance bag, throwing black tights, tap shoes and various other bits against the mirror, on the floor.

The baby is a sleeping dead weight against his arm when Darcy clears her throat, loudly, to catch his failing attention. He’s mortified to realize he has been staring absently at her the entire time. Her arms are crossed and posture rigid before she sees something – he’s not sure what – in his expression that gentles her features, softens her stance. She starts combing her fingers through her hair, pulling the strands back into a ponytail with one hand and (he tries not to notice) fishing a hair tie from her cleavage with the other.

“So. Not to be abrupt, but what did you need?”

_All of this_. He thinks, making a mental note to send Natasha an extravagant ‘thank you’, though he’s pretty sure she didn’t mean it that way. “What do I need?”

Ponytail secure, she brushes imaginary hair away from rosy ear lobes. “I doubt you came all the way over here to watch me play air guitar.”

_Oh_. “Your father sent me to ask if you wanted lunch.” 

She looks suddenly surprised but pleased at the same time. It’s an interesting expression, one that sends a warm sensation down his spine and his mouth to watering. “My dad’s back already?” She grins wide and beautifully for just a moment before the expression crumbles slightly, “He didn’t show you all of Bing’s crap, did he?”

Steve swallows a gob of saliva, his pits sweating heavily and his mouth working awkwardly. Glancing toward a stretching Jeffrey and prancing Olivia, he suddenly wishes for a child-sized buffer. He tries to clear his throat and discreetly wipes his free hand against his thigh. “Uh, no. He just showed me some pictures.”

Darcy bites her bottom lip and he wonders what she looks like with red lipstick. “Okay.” A beat then, “Listen, I have to get back to the Schedule-That –Even-Satan-Would-Not-Follow before Marta somehow notices the silence and appears before me in the mirror like Bloody Mary – but scarier and deadlier. You can tell Dad I’ll grab a quick salad or sandwich after Jeffrey’s rehearsal.”

Marta is beginning to sound like a bully to Steve, and he’s about to ask if Darcy needs him to have a word with her when she suddenly steps forward, pops up on bare toes and reaches up to smooth his forehead with warm fingertips. She’s so close he can smell her – sweat and deodorant with an almost floral undertone - the heat of her is as alluring as the slightest brush of her breasts. Her breath reaches his collar bone just before she settles back to her heels, her face feverishly red. 

This time she’s the one to clear her throat. “You had this,” she points to the area between her brows, “here. And it’s . .. I mean, you came here to relax and I just . . . wow, I’m really sorry for just intruding on your personal space like that.”

He’s opening his mouth to tell her it’s absolutely okay, that he’s not offended at all, and (maybe) that she can touch him whenever she likes (because her fingers are soft and warm and gentle and it’s been so long since someone has touched him without wanting something or trying to kill him).

But she’s still rambling and pulling on the hair trailing down her neck. “And, yeah, we really need to get to work now and you should probably check on the Duchess, and before any of that can happen, I really need the restroom, so see you later.” 

Steve can’t help but gape a little after her hurrying figure. He is so accustomed to being the one tripping over his words, coming unhinged (by the opposite gender - he doesn’t want to assume too much) that it is somewhat disconcerting to watch. 

Still, Darcy’s voice carries into the room even when she is out of sight, “You’d better be warmed up by the time I get back, Jeffrey Jamal Lewis, or you will be doing laps around the building while Olivia rides piggyback.”

Wincing, Steve looks to the boy-child sidling up next to him as Olivia begins cheering and twirling around them. The little girl loves to ride piggy back, he knows, and she has a tendency to hold on by gripping her steed’s hair. _Hard_.

After a few moments of silence, Jeffrey turns his head to stare at Steve with a slightly bewildered expression. It makes Steve sweat just a little, like when he was small and he was waiting to see if he was accepted into the group, the date, the army _this_ time. Waiting to be judged worthy.

Looking away, he shifts the sleeping Beckham before coughing softly and saying, “Your aunt is one helluva dame.”

Jeffrey watches him for countless (nerve-wracking) seconds before coming to some silent decision, a smirk transforming his young features as he lifts up a hand for a fist bump (Thanks Tony). “Preach, bro.”

GitP

It’s nearly been one complete day at the Lewis residence and though he’s been put to work, Steve already feels lighter and out of his own head, more _present_. The children help simply by being children – wanting attention, activity, and care then giving it back in unexpectedly simple ways.

Fiona or “Duchess” (he’s still not sure if using their nicknames is appropriate though all of them seem to answer to both given and assumed names) is a budding little artist, always pointing out her favorite colors and tracing out shapes and pictures with saliva or food or juice and fingers (sometimes asking to “borrow Dee Dee’s make-up”). Steve quickly realizes the little girl can be kept perfectly happy with a small stack of paper and crayons; but he coaxes her outside with a pack of brightly colored sidewalk chalk to work side by side with Olivia scribbling along the outer margins as they create a psychedelic masterpiece and the baby sits in an “exersaucer” (a contraption Steve has some concerns about but he isn’t a parent and – more importantly – he’s not a parent from this millennia so he is going to keep those thoughts to himself).

The “Countess” Olivia is much more physically inclined than her sister. He has been in her company for nearly ten hours now and has not seen her still once – not even while napping! She met him bounding up the drive in the dark of twilight and hasn’t stopped – running, jumping, climbing (sometimes him!), falling, dancing, shaking, and bouncing - since. He’s only just met her but he has a feeling her hair is always a knotted mess around her adorable face, her knees frequently skinned and bruised, and her fingernails never _quite_ squeaky clean.

The thought makes him grin even now. 

Beckham, also known as “Becks” or “the Dauphin”, is the easiest. Steve knows how to deal with babies and children. When things got tough back in the 30s, it wasn’t unusual for Mrs. Barnes and other neighbors to ask Steve to watch their children while he was between jobs. He was always happy to do it, always enjoyed the free acceptance of the kids he cared for; but he had to admit: Beckham is one of the quietest babies he’s ever dealt with. 

From the moment Bennet (who was – it has to be said – temporarily stunned upon seeing him in the drive after he had walked Darcy to the studio) thrust the baby into his arms (nary seconds after being introduced by Darcy as “my friend Grant aka the new baby-wrangler”), Beckham has weathered the day with nary a complaint (even when Steve wondered at the modern cloth diaper and fumbled with the snaps of the cover – an absolutely brilliant improvement over pins)and an easy sort of humor, smiling often and laughing at random things Steve and the girls said or got up to. 

As the day draws to a close and it becomes obvious the other two children are winding down, he requests Countess’s help building a blanket fort in the living room where they summarily gather – sitting criss-cross-applesauce (Duchess) or lying down (the Dauphin). The Countess is teeter-tottering from heel to toe and back before Steve reels her closer and seats her on one thigh. There is a book near the opposite hip and as he reaches for it, he holds onto Countess despite her squirming. 

“Dear Countess, will you do me the honor of turning the pages?” Another thing he has learned: the girls are much more likely to listen to instruction if addressed politely by their “titles”. The Countess flashes him a radiant smile, all baby teeth stained blue by the lollypop Mr. Lewis had slipped her earlier and says, “Yes sir!” 

He begins to read – a story about food items and finding a friend to play with – when he hears a soft snore and looks over to find the Dauphin’s sleeping face, hands raised above his head. The Duchess is pressed against his free leg. Her face hidden by his knee but he can tell from the weight of her body there that she’s in dreamland too.

Unlike her siblings, the Countess is still awake but she sways as he continues to read, her eyes ringed and bright with red. He slightly slows the cadence and lowers the pitch of his voice, holding her a little more securely to his side; and eventually, just as he’s reached the last page, Olivia snuffs at his shirt before sighing softly, her tiny body going lax and chin catching on his elbow. 

He shifts to adjust the child to lying near her siblings when the rustle of cloth, flash of rosy skin (accompanied by the crisp scent of soap) appears in his peripheral before a warm, adult-sized body topped with dark wet hair streaming over shoulders drops heavily next to him. He can’t help but note (with subtle humor) Darcy is careful to seat herself just outside his “personal space.”

“Tired?” she speaks softly, petting first Olivia’s hair then rubbing Fiona’s back when she whimpers in sleep. “I have never been able to get Olivia to sleep, like ever. You have to tell me your secret.”

The light is low in the little blanket tent the kids created (with Steve for the heavy lifting and hanging). He can see her clearly though she seems to be straining to focus on him behind the gleam of lenses. “There’s no secret. I just tired her out.”

She hums and the sound seems to reverberate through him. “I’m really sorry about dumping them on you like that. I’ll take over again tomorrow so you can enjoy your time off. And if there’s anything in particular you want to see, I can print out some directions for you or –“ “I appreciate the offer, Miss Lewis, but . . . I don’t really mind watching after the children.” He chuckles a little, self-conscious. “It’s actually more fun than I’ve had in a long time.”

Nodding, she directs her gaze to the baby, lying on his back and snoring soft baby-snores. He watches her, notes the serious expression and the set of her shoulders, as if she’s building up to something. The anticipation should fill him with dread, should make him nervous and uncomfortable. After all, he’s been on the receiving end of more than his fair share of difficult conversations; but she has been nothing but honest with him from the moment he stepped through the door, has only treated him with the utmost respect and (blessedly) ordinary regard so he waits, patiently, calmly.

And soon enough, she raises her face to him, purses her lips. “I’ve been wondering . . . and I apologize if this sounds like I’m crazy, but since you first got here, I swear it looked like you, um –“ She is visibly flustered, blinking rapidly and skin flushing dark in the half-light as she trips over her words, “like you might – and this is going to sound completely narcissistic – I’m so sorry, but it’s like you recognized me? I mean, we both know Thor and Natasha and –“ Here, her eyes widen as she covers her face with both hands, “And I am a total idiot. Natasha could totally hack into my facebook and show you pictures before coming here. Just forget I said any—“

“She didn’t show me any pictures. She didn’t even tell me your name until I asked, just a day out.” The time had finally come. He smiles at her when she drops her hands, hoping to reassure, before admitting, “You are right, though. I have seen you before. In a book.” 

He excuses himself to fetch the photo book, stopping momentarily when Mr. Lewis asks after the children and informs him Bennett will be by to pick them up in a bit, just in time for dinner. When he arrives at the blanket tent, Darcy watches him with a flattering amount of appreciation, her expression hinting at a sort of demure wistfulness. The look turns slightly confused when she sees the book in his hand then recognition.

Taken aback, she pales and gives a visible shiver. “Where did you get that?” Silently, he hands it over and falls to sitting next to her, shoulder to shoulder, as she caresses the cover lovingly with shaking fingers. “I didn’t think any more of these existed.” She turns her face up to him, eyes shining above grinning pink lips. “Only a few were printed and I lost my copy in New Mexico – fucking SHIELD.”

Then she’s flipping through the pages, sniffling at some, outright crying at others, and laughing – always laughing, often behind a hand as if embarrassed. He watches her silently, wondering at the story here and not quite knowing how to ask in a way that won’t hurt her. It is only too obvious by her misty eyes and warm cheeks that the flavor is bittersweet at best.

The quiet folds them in but it’s not uncomfortable like his near empty SHIELD acquired apartment; doesn’t remind him of the tomb he was never actually part of or the icy darkness which he was. Rather, it’s companionable, comforting . . . beautifully alive, with the children sleeping soundly nearby and the voices of Mr. Lewis, a newly arrived Bennet, and two others he cannot readily identify. 

Her fingers trail the ragged edges of one torn page and she asks him, “How long have you had this?” 

“Not long.” His voice is pitched low and soft, nearly reverent. It simply seems appropriate. “I found it lying in some rubble while cleaning up in New York.”

“Oh.” She breathes, flashing him the sweetest and smallest of smiles. “She must have really wanted you to have it.” The sound of turning pages is sharp among the muted softness around them, “Do you have a favorite?”

Unabashedly, he studies her face for a few moments before silently taking the book more completely in his hands and turning to a very specific page. It’s a picture he had skipped over several times before realizing the discrepancy in page #s was due to a stuck page. The page before was sporting a sticky substance that had dried and made it difficult to separate without marring the image he shows her.

The rough white patch where the glue came away with colored surface gloss does not detract from the overall elegance and raw emotion of the piece. 

Against a dark and blurry backdrop Steve believes to be a stage considering the bright lighting bleaching skin and gleaming against pale blue sequined lycra, Darcy’s planked body is suspended above the floor on one hand and bare toes. The other hand is outstretched, palm down and fingers articulating desperation as her feet flex, sending her slightly forward. 

It’s a deceptively simple pose made complex by the camera angle, emphasizing every shadow and plane, the contours of controlled, tense muscles that seem strong and – somehow – on the verge of collapse. The feeling is only more pronounced when study extends to Darcy’s face – achingly young and pained. Her eyes are focused on someone or something far away, brows furrowed over them, red mouth very slightly open below. Her lower jaw is soft and limp as it hangs just so and slightly retracted. The light refracts onto her cheeks in such a way that there is an impression of smeared mascara and drying tear tracks. 

When he first saw the photo, he had believed her to be reaching out, beckoning whoever or whatever was the subject of her interest with a desperate sort of agony; but closer inspection had made him question that first impression, wondering if the mood was something markedly different though the pain was just as intense, wondering if she wasn’t letting something or someone go despite the visibly apparent heartbreak.

Quite appropriately, he thinks, the title emblazoned below the shot is a simple, charged “ _Don’t_ ”.

“I’m actually not really surprised given what you’ve been through.” Darcy’s warmth is pressed against his side, the top of her head just reaching his chin as she shares the book with him, and he is aware of it all – the sensation of every small movement, of her scent, the modulation of her soft voice . “My mother had a way of capturing the rawest emotion at just the right moment.”

Steve pauses for just a moment, dissecting what she might mean by the first then choosing to address the second. “Your mother is Maria Lucas, the photographer?”

Glancing up at him, her sea blue eyes washed to gold in the low-light give him a searching look before her fingers flip to the back of the book to find several pages missing. “Looks like the bio and self-portrait are gone,” she mutters softly before carefully thumbing through the pages backwards, saying, “Lucas was her maiden name. She went by Maria Lewis professionally . . . in the dance circles. She was a skilled and well-known ballroom dancer. That’s actually how my mom and dad met.” 

Though he doesn’t ask, she continues, her voice taking on a reverent tone, deeper and more melodic, as if a smile could be spoken. “Dad was a horny teenager and saw mom in a competition while doing community service after shop lifting a few cigarettes from the corner store. Anyway, she was in this really slinky tango number and – the way he tells it – he knew he had to find a way to talk to her. So he did some recon and signed up for dance lessons at her dance school where she was student teaching. “ She shakes her head, her damp hair trailing behind his tricep in a cool, delicate tingle. 

“Anyway, they eventually partnered and went on to place well in several amateur state competitions. But dad wasn’t in love with dance and – honestly – neither was mom, not really. But she went to school for business, got certified to teach through Dance Masters and built the studio anyway.”

Darcy pauses and takes a deep breath, her fingertips dancing along the binding edges of the book with palpable affection and regret. “But . . . as talented as she was in dance, her real passion was photography. She always had a camera on her . . . I remember. When she was cooking . . . cleaning, when she was teaching. She had even kept one on her bedside table.” Here, she huffed an exasperated laugh. “Even in the hospital. Even when she was being fed through a tube and couldn’t walk without help, she was always taking pictures.”

“When she was admitted into hospice and the end of her life was a concrete, almost scheduled event, Dad and a publisher friend of his asked her what photos she would publish if she could. She chose these, and Dad made it happen.”

Steve realizes then what she meant when she said she isn’t surprised _Don’t_ is the photo that touches him most. Everything about the composition reflects a unifying brand of primal loss. It is something he recognizes in her as she sits – ever closer despite the divide of earlier – with faraway eyes and quiet, reverent voice; something – he now knows – she recognizes in him. 

The realization is a paradoxical comfort. 

She is the first in his – admittedly – limited acquaintance with this century - to understand but hasn’t pressed him to talk, to express, to pretend. Or see a counselor. Just that silent understanding, that tacit kinship lifts his spirits a degree, makes it a little easier to breathe. He knows that if he ever does want to talk, she will listen; and, maybe, just maybe, he might want to one day.

He doesn’t smile for her, doesn’t reach out to take her hand as he might have done with someone else. Instead, he catches her gaze, hears her gasp as he dips his head a little closer, feels her shiver when he murmurs, heart full and strong, “Thank you.”

Her face flushes but her eyes never waver from his, even when her father calls them both to dinner and Bennet’s shadow is outlined just outside of the blanket door. “You’re welcome.”

GitP

Later – earlier? - Darcy is up again at fuck-my-life-o’clock the next morning (it never gets easier). She doesn’t bother to turn on the light. She had gone to bed in her favorite hot pink and neon yellow matching sports bra and booty shorts so she doesn’t have to change. 

As it is autumn, she’ll need a jacket and pants to walk the short distance to the studio but that will come later. Right now, she needs to brush her teeth and maybe do something with her hair. 

Squinting at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she decides to fuck the hair, it’s just gonna get ratty from sweat and shit. Huffing a long breath, she goes back into the office / temporary bedroom and looks over Marta’s schedule as she packs her bag for the day. 

She has solo work to do today (with Collins spotting), then overseeing Collins and Rhonda’s ballroom numbers, the Royals and rehearsals for the big finale. There’s also a much-welcome (much-needed) break in the day where she will switch gears to practice piano and sort out the third shipment of costumes. She smiles to herself, _thank Thor_. Dance is her first love, but her body isn’t made for this kind of constant, bone-breaking kind of work.

Shouldering the heavy duffle full of skirts, shoes, props, accessories and various first aid supplies, Darcy makes her way to the kitchen and nearly comes out of her skin when the front door opens to reveal a bright-eyed Steve dressed in sweats and the tiniest of tighty-whitey t-shirts. 

Had he been anyone else, she would have given a low wolf whistle. Or tried to. She really doesn’t know how she could possibly be expected to verbalize anything when faced with such a concentration of male attractiveness in one room. _Thank YOU Dr. Erskine._

A breath and then, This is gonna take some getting used to. Even though part of her hopes she never will. Not that she expects to be up close and personal with him all that often in the future or anything. Just . . . she can actually FEEL his eyes studying her through the darkness.

To cover up the sudden fluster, Darcy smiles and intentionally lowers her shoulders from her ears when he offers, “Good Morning.” His voice is hushed and gives her shivers for the almost intimate quality of it – like a hours ago in the blanket tent. 

“’Morning. Please don’t tell me you just came in from a run.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I just came in from a run.”

Darcy gapes. “It’s 3 in the morning!”

The grin he flashes is boyish and bright enough to make out through the dark, and she can’t decide if it makes her want to jump him or punch him (not that it would have much effect but to injure her . . . Jumping it is). 

“I’ve been out since 2.”

He chuckles when she makes a disgusted sound, too tired and sleep deprived to think anything but the very real need to teach this man how to fucking relax. Preferrably alone with candlelight and massage oil and – _Remember Darcy. PRO-FESS-ION-AL. You are more than your lacking sex life and your vag does not control you._

She is trying to convince herself of this as she turns on a bare heel toward the kitchen only to be pulled by a large, warm hand in the opposite direction. 

Her entire body goes up in flames, just like that, so hard her ears are roaring with the inferno and can barely hear him say, “Thank you, for showing me around the neighborhood.”

_God_ , she is going to fucking kill Natasha next time they were in the same room together. Or, you know, _try_ to kill her because Darcy has zero doubts as to who would actually win that match up. (Because, you just didn’t do this kind of shit to a friend without fair warning.)

‘Cause see, it’s been a few hours since Steve showed her the book, and after seeing the kids into Bennett’s car and having dinner, she had had a moment of complete and total _insanity_ and asked him if he wanted to take a walk around the neighborhood.

Currently, the blame had been laid on – in no particular order – sleep deprivation, Marta and the Schedule ™, sleep deprivation, her mother and the photobook, sleep deprivation, the developing . . . . _something_ she feels when Steve looks at her, and sleep deprivation.

There really isn’t anything else that could possibly explain the stupidity of that decision. 

As for Steve taking her up on the offer, well, that was totally on him.

So, they had taken a walk and talked. Talked about _everything_ (except – notably – anything having to do with the current Avengers and the Chitauri): about her childhood growing up with a sick mother, about her mother’s philosophy of truth on the dance floor, about having way older siblings and being an “oops” baby. He told her of his past – being the sick one, of losing his own mother and battling the guilt that he had been the one to wear her down to such a young death, of wanting to join the fight, _needing_ to prove himself and feel useful, the super serum and not really registering that the changes had happened to _him_ and this was his body now.

They talked about _grief_. She had apologized for all he’d been through, told him about her personal philosophy of letting yourself feel it, told him to never let anyone tell him to get over it or force him into a schedule for “closure”. She had encouraged him to take the time to process everything – one aspect at a time – because he’s not just mourning family, friends or a lover or a neighborhood. He’s lost an entire era and all the years in between. 

_“You’ve already given more than should have ever been asked of one person. And you deserve the time and space to decide what you want to do here on out.”_

And, of course, she had to glance up at him after that only to find him watching her. Due to the night and shadows, she wasn’t able to parse out his expression; but the same uncontrollable feeling that had come over when she noticed the line between his brows – this time tempered by the echoes of shame – prompted her to ask if she could take his arm.

See? _Insanity._

(That he wordlessly bent his elbow for her to thread her arm through doesn’t matter. He was coerced by his good manners.)

Then he had asked her where she is on her own grief cycle, and she had truly thought about it: pictured her mother, the book, and everything that was to come . . . everything her mother was missing. And Darcy had looked up to him, wondered at how he felt like a good, close friend just then walking beside her in the dark of her old neighborhood – so easy to talk to even though the subject was heavy, and smiled. “ _I think I’m finally recovering.”_

And now, just a few stinking hours later, she is back to eyeing his body and wishing she was ready to do something about it. God, she didn’t want to be so shallow. So, she resolves to herself to be his _friend_ and a better host. 

She clears her throat and musters a welcoming smile. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Are you going back to bed or do you just need very little sleep?”

Knowing the answer already (reading his file was one of the highlights of the clusterfuck her life had become since, ya know, SHIELD decided to stomp all over it with their jackboots), she merely nods when he tells her two or three hours is plenty. “Coffee? And I can make you breakfast too. I have to open the studio in an hour.”

As they pick their way through the darkened living room and the kitchen lights are switched on, Steve waits patiently near the table with the goofiest look on his face until she practically orders him to sit down. 

She putters about gathering, coffee grinds, eggs, bacon, bread, cheese, cereal, and grapefruit (completely unsure of what would satisfy him, so why not just feed him the entire pantry?); humming to herself as she tries (and spectacularly fails) to ignore the awareness prickling her skin.

“I was meaning to ask,” he starts, closer than she had registered just a second ago when she spied him at the corner of her eye while setting up the coffee machine. “When is the . . . sh – I mean memo – um.”

Laughing, Darcy turned to brandish a pan and drizzle a little olive oil into it. “Dude, you may call it the Thing. Because I like you.” A pause then, “Show sounds too commercial and memorial sounds too dark and gloomy.”

He _audibly_ relaxes behind her. “Thanks. When is the Thing?”

“A week and a half. So, don’t be surprised if there are entire days no one is home. Set building, last minute costuming alterations, stage set up, rehearsals, all that jazz . . . it’s going to be nuts, Steve. N-V-T-S. _Nuts_.”

“N-V-T-S?” 

She cracks eggs into the oil and savors that first sizzle while stepping away to dodge the oil spatter and turning to find his face etched with confusion. Of course he didn’t get that reference. “From Mel Brooks’ _History of the World_. I have the DVD. You’re more than welcome to partake.”

“You and your family have been more than kind. Thank you.” He sounds so tired but also sincere, she has to turn around. Their eyes lock, and the words are coming out of her mouth before she can really think to stop them,

“You are very welcome, Steven; and Just so you know, you’re part of the family now, so no thanks are needed.”

Darcy isn’t sure what she expected; but Steve _stops_ like a video on pause. It’s almost (strangely) hilarious and she let’s out some combination of a shriek and a laugh when he doesn’t come out of it for several moments.

When he does, he closes his eyes slowly and when they open, his eyes are red, bloodshot and wet. 

His throat works for what seems like the longest seconds of Darcy’s life (and she’s faced a fucking Destroyer) because she thinks she may have overstepped or offended or . . . something and an apology is on the tip of her tongue when his voice, low and choked and achingly _beautiful_ sets her skin tingling and eyes to watering in response.

“ _Thank you_.”

The moment is set in crystal, delicate and sharp at the same time. Which – of course – means Darcy has to _shatter_ it by being a smart ass. “We know because we are made of awesome.”

Steve laughs, she is grateful for the leavening atmosphere, and sets to finishing and serving breakfast. All the while, in the back of her mind, she can’t help but worry that she isn’t ready to see him so vulnerable, not ready for the _feels_ , but it’s coming clearer with each passing moment in his company: She’s in serious danger of falling for Steve Rogers.

_R.I.P. Natasha Romanov._

While she is mentally planning to assassinate an honest-to-god assassin, he is across the table worrying his napkin (never let it be said that Darcy Lewis has no table manners) and – by extension – _her_. And – again, when she’s about to say something, he comes to some sort of decision and speaks – sounding much more normal this time. “I think I’ll take you up on the offer. . . to attend the Thing.”

For some reason, she cannot readily identify, Darcy knows this is a Big Deal ™ for him, so she beams a genuine smile and lets him know, “Great! I’ll let dad and Marta know. I guarantee you’ll get the best seat in the house.”

His answering smile is equal parts heart-stopping and heart-breaking, “That’s really not necessary, Miss Lewis.”

It’s too awkward for her to handle, and she knows the problem is only affecting her, hell the problem _is_ her. “Still a guarantee.” Looking for an exit . . . an escape before she does something unforgivable like hug him or worse: _tell him she thinks he’s adorable and sweet and everything she imagines for her future and she wants his hands on her . . . Now._ “Anyway, I have to be on my way. Bennet will be here in an hour to drop the kids, and dad has a meeting with Marta.”

Avoiding his eyes is easy while collecting her dishes and popping them in the dish washer. It’s harder to avoid the warm hand that encloses her wrist, firm but gentle. 

“Do you need to wrap your ankle?”

Darcy’s entire body warms as every inch of skin is painted in a blush. All of her bold, brashness seems to be sucked out of her, her stomach lit up with butterflies and rainbows. Because, yes, she has a long history of forgetting that she needs the extra joint support; and, no, not many people in her trust circle remind her (Bing doesn’t count since he is responsible for the injuries that make a support bandage necessary).

In just ONE question, Steve Rogers has shown more care for her well-being than all four of her serious boyfriends (as well as some friends and close family) _combined_. (Probably explained why her family never actually liked any of her boyfriends but . . . yeah.) 

Not that she wants him to be her boyfriend or anything – she isn’t stupid; a relationship right now wouldn’t fit in with her very though out, very detailed plans. And She. Is. Not. Ready. 

Not ready for a normal relationship. Definitely not ready for a relationship with a super hero who is – technically – several decades her senior.

And neither is he – ready for a relationship. She thinks it will take him at least a year or two before he will be - if he allows himself to grieve fully and learn about the world as it is rather than as it was; because – the thought comes through like a close range bullet to the brain – _if_ it ever comes to pass they are both ready at the same time and place and equally interested, she knows he could be it for her. 

She has no idea where that thought comes from or why (she’s blaming Natasha . . . and her mother) because she very much doubts Steve is entertaining even a _fraction_ of the attraction she feels (yes, she’s got the body of pin up but she wants to be wanted for her personality too and his knowledge of her thus far is in photographs and a morbidly deep discussion about death and mourning), doesn’t really understand why she feels equal parts twittering nervous and certain calm with it. 

Still, because of those thoughts she knows she is not only fucked but _royally fucked_.

And not only is she going to murder and bury Natasha when next they meet, she is also going to tap dance on the Widow’s grave with _clogs_. (And maybe Jane too for convincing her to come back home in the first place).

GitP

Bennet is pureeing the baby’s food in the Cuisinart with her shirt open and some strange contraption hooked up to her chest with a dual set of flanges and baby bottles filling – magically – with milk, as a rhythmic, soft mechanical sound issues from it. (“I’m so sorry to do this when you’re just getting to know us all, but I didn’t have time this morning at home and The Dauphin refuses to take formula.”)

Steve wants to look, admires that such a remarkable machine is available now for breastfeeding mothers; but what he believes to be modern propriety says he should be out the room (he thinks?); but Bennet has insisted that he stay, that she doesn’t mind him staying and/or watching (“The sensitive bits are completely covered even if it seems like they’re not.”); but if he’s uncomfortable, he can turn his back.

Which he does, more out of respect for her and her marriage than any sort of issue with the expression of her milk. Growing up in a poor neighborhood, he had seen his share of nursing mothers without fanfare or censure. However, that was then and this is now; and he’s still very unsure of what’s expected in certain social situations.

“So, **_Grant_** ,” Bennet begins after turning off the food processor, “have you decided how long you’re going to be staying?” Her tone is such that he instantly knows she’s just curious, not insinuating that he’s a burden. It’s something that he appreciates deeply, the ease he feels with all members of the Lewis clan he’s met so far.

“I’m staying long enough to see the . . . Thing?” Just like modern breastfeeding, he isn’t entirely certain Darcy’s family will understand the reference.

“That’s great!” He can feel the warmth of her grin at his back while dishes clink and the amalgamation she made is poured. “We’ll make sure you get the best seat in the house.” Steve couldn’t hold back a chuckle even as he shakes his head slowly. _This family_. “Darcy said the same thing.”

He hears the cluck of her tongue under the buzzing screams of Oliva and Fiona playing airplane as they run through the back door then into and through the kitchen. Something hits the table top he is leaning against and then the rustle of fabric. “Well, it’s only right. You’re family now and it’s the first time you’re going to see it.” A pause and then. “You can turn around now.”

Turning slowly, to give her a little more time to straighten her clothes, Steve tries to express how touched and grateful he is with a smile. “Darcy said that too.”

Bennet’s hands are busy stacking bottles of breastmilk in the refrigerator then pulling out deli meats, tomatoes, lettuce, and cheese to make sandwiches for the girls. The casual way she takes control of the kitchen is something he’s noticed about all of the Lewis children. “Not surprising, Darcy knows just how important family is – whether it’s the one you’re born with or the one you find along the way.”

Bucky comes sharply, painfully to mind. “I understand that sentiment.”

She shoots him a look that is sad and sweet at the same time, and he suddenly realizes uselessly that Darcy’s mother is Bennet’s mother. “I’m sure you do.” She sets up the food stuffs on the table in a very specific order with a knife for each element and precut squares of cling wrap lined up for convenience. “Darcy told me you had found mama’s book. I think I can speak for all of us that we’re honored you kept it.”

“Your mother was very talented. Every photo is deceptively simple but says so much.” It’s the truth but doesn’t really define precisely what those photographs have been for him.

Bennet’s hands are moving almost absently in a dance he’s watched twice now and never fails to impress with the speed and precision of the movements constructing several custom sandwiches one by one then wrapping them with neat, exacting flicks of the fingers even as she talks. “Can’t argue with you there. Darcy said there were some pages missing from the copy that you found.”

He has a subtle premonition that this is leading to something. “The book was pretty beat up when I found it. The bookstore was nothing but rubble after the Chitauri.”

Her blue eyes actually glitter as she deliberately purses her lips at him and taps them with a finger. A reminder to keep clues as to his “secret” (but not so secret) identity to himself. Then with an efficiency he has only ever seen in someone like Pepper Potts, she stacks the sandwiches – all in their little clear cling wrap envelopes – in four separate stacks before labeling them with a child’s name (Jeffrey included). 

“Well, lucky for you, I am the keeper of mama’s negatives. Darcy remembered a few that were gone, so I already printed them out for you. Just let me know if there are any more you would like to see.” As she talks, she pops up from her seat to grab a little parcel from her purse tied off with ribbon. She smiles into his face as she pushes it into his hands.

Inside the box is a small collection of photographs. He flips through them quickly once, then takes them in one at a time, stopping at the third. It’s different from all of the other photos – here and the photobook. The color has muted to sepia and the image is slightly blurred with age. Framed around a chaotic bed, the shot features a young Jeremiah sleeping with his arms around four children, also asleep. They are all lying haphazardly, legs and arms thrown across bodies and hands in faces or pushing against each other. A toddler clad only in plastic underwear, a girl that he can only assume is a very young Darcy is arched across another older girl – Bennet’s – hip, her head tipped back at an exaggerated angle and mouth wide open and lined with drool. 

It’s deceptively peaceful, but he sees signs of violence in the folds of mussed blankets and sheets on the empty side of the bed; notices a row of medicine bottles, one of them open, on the bedside table; spies the tilted shade of a tipped over lamp. 

“What is this one called?”

Coming around to lean over his shoulder, Bennet sighs then pats his back. “ _Reason_.”

“The reason she lived?”

“Mmm. The reason she fought. Mama fought so hard. She didn’t really know how to give up. I have a feeling you have that in common with her.” Another sigh. “This was taken the day after she got her first cancer diagnosis, right after mama and daddy sat us down to explain everything.”

Steve’s heart drops. Darcy had mentioned her mother had fought cancer for a long time, but . . . “But you’re all so young.” Baby Darcy especially. His mother had been healthy most of his life, only succumbing to tuberculosis when he was well into adulthood. He imagines a toddler would not be able to understand the situation except to wonder why mama was in the hospital or at the doctor or couldn’t play with her like she used to while surrounded by a house full of tension and fear.

“Bing and I were thirteen, Collins was eleven, and Darcy had just turned three. Mama was in and out of the hospital for a few years with treatments and secondary illnesses. She went into remission two years later but the cancer came back three years after that. I ended up pregnant and had Princess during that second round. I could tell mama was equal parts disappointed, ecstatic, and exhausted.“ Bennet’s tone is even, her words measured and matter-of-fact. “That round lasted four years and then remission. We all had hope it was all over, Mama saw both Collins and me get married . . . and Jeffrey was born. Bing moved out to LA and Darcy graduated high school.”

She straightens, walks over to the refrigerator again and pulls out a few apples. Her hands are just as deliberate as they were with the sandwiches, snagging a knife then sitting in her spot across the table again to start peeling. “Darcy had just gotten accepted into Skidmore in New York for dance when mama found out the last time; and even though we all told her a million times not to, Darcy decided to go to Culver instead because it was closer . . . for political science of all things.” The apple peel is like red ribbon, winding its way across the table to him. “But then . . . I guess it was a blessing, in a way. Mama went into hospice around the end of Darcy’s freshman year and I had just had Olivia. And mama decided she wanted to travel instead of sitting home in a drugged stupor . . . so Darcy took off a year from school and everyone took sabbatical from work and we took a lovely family vacation through Europe.”

Steve isn’t sure why Bennet is telling him all of this but listens attentively anyway because he doesn’t want to be rude and . . . he genuinely wants to know about this family who are so generous with him. 

She takes the slices of one apple and lines them up neatly along the rim of a waiting bowl before peeling the next one. “It . . . We made some wonderful memories there.” Her voice cracks a little. “When we got back, mama died in a matter of weeks. She never got to see her book. There were only enough copies made to disperse among the family and a few extra. “ Shaking her head, Bennet sighs a third time, layering the new apple slices into the bowl as he watches silent. “Anyway, we just wanted you to have the full set of pictures since Darcy said you seemed to enjoy them.”

Clearing his throat, Steve ruminates briefly on what he wants to say and how he wants to say it. “I don’t have many pictures from . . . before, never did – too expensive and unnecessary in the grand scheme of things when money was tight; but, when I woke up, they weren’t mine anymore. Nearly everything is in archives or museums.”

Finished with the apples, Bennet first rubs her hands together then drags them down her sides. He listens to the legs of her chair scrape against the linoleum, her bare feet pad toward him. “Can you stand up a minute, Steve?”

Unsure, he does as asked and feels like he’s been punched in the gut by Hulk when the (older?) woman wraps her arms about his chest, resting warm palms against his shoulder blades and a cheek against his shoulder. He holds his arms out awkwardly as he waffles on what to say, settling for a staggered, “W-what?”

She doesn’t let go, just regards him through her lashes. “You look like someone who could really use a hug. I can’t ignore that kind of cry for help. I’m too tactile. Ask Darcy – when we shared a room, I couldn’t fall asleep without rubbing her hair between my fingers. My husband grew his hair out for just that reason.” Her body settles more firmly into the hug and he can feel her smile. “You can hug me back, you know.”

Steve knows without a doubt if he said he was uncomfortable, she would let him go; but he isn’t. Actually, it feels nice to be held, to be cared for. Awkwardly, his arms come around her shoulders as she begins to urge him into a sway. He closes his eyes, savoring human closeness.

And laughs when first Olivia and Fiona then a passing Collins and Bingley then Jeremiah (“Can’t resist a group hug”), Jeffrey and even Rhonda – Collins’ ex-wife join in, enveloping him in an unexpected (but wholly welcome) sense of belonging.

GitP

“Ducky Lynn.” A woman’s voice calls from the back of the auditorium as heels clack along the tile.

Darcy knows exactly who it is and takes her hands off the piano keys, effectively silencing the music. “Not my actual name, Marta.”

Marta, Darcy’s cousin, is a tall, curvaceous woman well niched into middle age with brown, graying hair and laugh lines on her face. She toddles on her heels with small pointed steps, her body incased in a stylish pencil skirt and fitted jacket. “I’m aware of that, sweets.” When she reaches the stage, the older woman hops up to sit on the edge, just below Darcy’s natural vantage point. “I need to discuss a change of venue with you.”

Darcy’s fingers absently play random notes even as her brows knit together, genuinely perplexed because obviously . . . “I’m not the one that makes those decisions. That’s Mack and Jay’s deal.”

Marta’s withering look is just this side of scary, and Darcy has faced down a giant alien robot thing that shot volcanic levels of fire out of its face. _Indiscriminately_. “Of course I have talked to them about it . . . and Uncle Jeremy. However, there is a special circumstance that brings me to you, as the change is being specially requested by Mr. Tony Stark.”

“Oh Jesus.” Fingers and palms forcefully jammed into the keyboard. “I don’t have time to manage a bazillionaire’s whims.” As it is, Marta is taking her practice time by bringing this to her now rather than at home, when she can focus on something other than keeping on schedule.

“You do when that bazillionaire is offering to pay the overhead and operating fees without asking to be a board member.”

Wide eyes and jaw drawn, Darcy slithers from the bench to kneel beside her cousin. “Are you fucking joking?”

Marta’s smile is as sharp and dangerous as a shark’s. “I don’t joke about that much money.”

“But . . . he . . . when I last talked to him, he only said he wanted it streamed live to the tower. There was no mention of him getting involved!” (She should have gotten that shit in writing because yes, publicity, attention for their efforts and the foundation is GREAT in theory; but she doesn’t want what they’re doing and what they’re doing it for to get lost in the media circus that follows Tony Stark and his entourage. God, she hopes he didn’t decide to attend too. That would kind of make Steve’s vacation a moot thing which does not sit well with Darcy at all. The man deserves some down time. Period. And she would absolutely make sure nothing fucks it up.)

“Per our phone conversation, he stated he realized you had misled him after watching several You Tube videos of your past dance competitions online. Apparently, his opinion of you has suffered due to false modesty? Ms. Potts then stated they would have liked to attend but understood the venue to be sold out.”

“Dear God, you and Mr. Stark _talked_? In real time?” Darcy is pretty sure this is the first sign of the impending apocalypse; and she makes a secret mental vow to never, ever, ever let them actually meet in person. (She chooses to completely ignore the accusation that she misled anyone or has even a modicum of modesty. She had told him point blank that she danced in competitions once upon a time. If he wanted to be overly dramatic about her skill level, so be it. His problem, not hers.) “I really prefer keeping the venue we have. The thing has always been there. And . . . maybe it’s stupid, but I would prefer to keep this just in the family, you know? We made it, we should keep going as we have been. It’s never hurt our numbers and the audience grows every year. If only just for this year, let’s keep the status quo.”

Marta is never hesitant, tapping her long, manicured nails against the hardwood stage. “Have you changed your mind about next year?”

Darcy folds, hugging her knees. “No. I’m also sure about this. Stark doesn’t get a say no matter the donation or the offers for more money.”

“And if he renege’s on the donation?” It’s almost gratifying that her cousin doesn’t delve more deeply into the why she’s so adamant about not changing to a larger venue, why she doesn’t want to entertain a multi-billionaire who just happens to be Ironman and her boss. Darcy realizes in that instant that Marta trusts her judgement to a terrifying degree.

She’s almost touched.

“He’s not going to. I only met him for like fifteen minutes, but he doesn’t strike me as the type to go back on his word without good reason.” 

The lawyer of the family nods solemnly. “I’ll get in touch with him and his people.” She sighs again, tiredly and Darcy feels sympathetic. As much as they curse Marta’s schedule, Marta is just as overworked as the rest of them. It’s easy to forget that. “In any case, he told me the camera crews will be here to set up tomorrow.”

A jaw cracking yawn and then. “Okay. The stage is taped and half the sets are already done. Bing should be able to meet them during his break around 3 to direct them.”

“I’ll let Ms. Potts know.” Marta smiles gently at the younger Lewis cousin before hopping off the stage. “I’m going to be at your house finalizing a few things with Uncle Jeremy tomorrow. I was also hoping to nail down what releases you’ll need for your finale plans. Collins was telling me your idea is pretty ambitious.” Her cousin starts to walk away through the center aisle, heels clicking on ceramic tile.

It’s then that something – a problem that has been unknotting slowly in her brain she hadn’t even been aware of – crystallizes and a sense of puzzle pieces falling into place comes to her. “Hey Marta!”

The woman turns around, face attentive. “Can the call to Stark and Potts be a conference call?” Darcy grins, feeling the lightness of possibility. “And can I sit in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time:
> 
> Darcy's family members vie for Steve's attention while also trying to convince Darcy to woo him and make his adoption official.

**Author's Note:**

> [Next up: Darcy gets a phone call, Jane is a little devious, and Steve receives a possibly-unwanted-wanted gift.


End file.
